


Whether It's Rain or Shine

by giantteenwolforgy



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - No Hale Fire, Baking mis-adventures, Banter, College Student!Stiles, Fluff, Hate Boners, Jackson is a douchebro, M/M, Misunderstandings, Pigtail Pulling, Play Fighting, Slow Burn, Truces, UST, Weatherman!Derek
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-15
Updated: 2014-08-10
Packaged: 2018-01-01 15:46:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 22,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1045675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/giantteenwolforgy/pseuds/giantteenwolforgy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Hi, I’m Derek Hale. This is Hale Storm on the Weather Channel.”</p>
<p>Stiles promptly chokes on his noodles. </p>
<p>OR</p>
<p>In which Derek is a hot weatherman and Stiles has a huge crush.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everybody! This was originally posted on my Tumblr (giantteenwolforgy), but I figured AO3 would be a better place to put it all. Next chapter should be up relatively soon. :) xo

“Hi, I’m Derek Hale. This is  _Hale Storm_  on the Weather Channel.”

Stiles promptly chokes on his noodles.

“Dude are you okay?” he hears Scott saying, but  _ugh_. He’s just had like a religious experience, okay. He’s allowed to choke. “Dude?” 

“I’m fine,” he wheezes, lunging towards his water bottle. “That guy—holy shit—“

Three sets of eyes turn curiously towards the TV, where the hottest weatherman to ever exist in the history of  _ever_  is talking about the increase in high pressure systems along the coast.

Stiles swallows convulsively and sets down his bowl on the coffee table.

“What the fuck is this?” Jackson asks incredulously. “Are we watching porn?”

“This is some shitty porn,” Scott mumbles.

“This is  _the_   _Weather Channel_ ,” Stiles spits out, eyes still glued to the figure on his screen.

Derek chooses that moment to turn his back to the camera and reach up to gesture near the top of the map and holy shitballs goddamn everything he has an ass that should be  _illegal_.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Danny’s jaw drop.

If Stiles had any control over his faculties, his jaw would probably be dropping too because in addition to a face that makes Stiles want to curl up on the floor and cry (seriously, it’s  _that_  beautiful), Derek is wearing a simple white button-up, with the sleeves rolled up to show his forearms and Stiles doesn’t know about Danny but in his book, forearms are like 3000%  _yes_. There’s also the fact that he has stubble and muscles that pull the shirt tight around the shoulders and he looks like he isn’t even trying to be sexy, but he  _is_.

Stiles swallows thickly.

Jackson scoffs indignantly.

And then Derek looks at the camera and smiles and it’s  _glorious_.

***

It becomes a thing (for Stiles, at least).

Danny will sit with him and ogle the obscenity that is Derek Hale if he’s home, but Scott doesn’t care and Jackson does nothing but huff and puff because he always gets pissy when people are more attractive than him.

One afternoon, Stiles is in the pantry, frantically rooting around for something edible to eat when Scott calls: “Dude, you’re about to miss it!”

And, well, some things are just more important than food, okay?

“You have a problem,” Jackson says from the kitchen table at about the same time that Stiles vaults over the back of the couch and almost brains himself on the edge coffee table in his haste to get situated.

Stiles doesn’t answer because Derek is on screen now and he has his shirt sleeves rolled up on his forearms.  _Again_. “He has his shirt-sleeves rolled up on his forearms again,” Stiles informs the room in some state of panic. Jesus.

“So do you,” Scott points out, looking up briefly from his laptop.

“Yeah, but  _I_ was not crafted by the hands of Adonis himself.”

“You have a  _problem_ ,” Jackson repeats.

“Hi,” Derek says from the TV, and his smile could make lesser men  _weep_.

As it is, Stiles tears up a little.

Halfway through the segment—after all tears are firmly squared away—someone knocks at the door and Scott leaps up from his chair like an over-excited puppy. “Guys, he’s here! Be nice to him, okay—he’s in my English class; we’re studying together!”

“Wait—what? What’s happening? Who’s here?” Stiles asks from the couch.

His name turns out to be Isaac and he chokes on a laugh when he sees Stiles watching  _Hale Storm_.

“That show is—“

Stiles cuts him off before he can say anything else because he gets enough shit for this already.

“Awesome? Yeah, I know man. Well—I guess the show itself isn’t awesome. The name is pretty fucking bad, but the weatherman makes up for it.”

Isaac’s eyes widen, another incredulous grin twitching the corners of his mouth.

“You think he’s—“

“Dude, don’t even pretend like you don’t. Derek Hale is definitely the hottest person to ever walk the face of the earth.”

Scott makes a pained noise and drags Isaac away like Stiles is  _embarrassing_  him or something. Which, whatever. Isaac seems like a cool enough dude, even though he’s obviously harboring a little bit too much disdain for the most wonderful show to ever air.

Stiles turns his attention back to Derek, who’s busy talking about the chance of rain throughout the week. His hands move as he talks, pointing out different areas on the map with a level of fluid grace that someone who looks like they bench press things for fun really shouldn’t possess.

And his hands are…fuck, his hands look  _magic_. Hands like his would probably ghost up his skin and fist in Stiles’s hair; make him moan and shiver and beg for more.

“You asshole,” Stiles breathes out, because being so perfect is just  _not fair_.

Derek winks at him.

***

“So, hypothetically—“ Stiles says after a month of getting tortured by Derek “Fucking Embodiment of Sex” Hale.

He’s at his regular coffee shop and the barista rolls her eyes, shooting him her signature unimpressed glare that  _always_  makes him falter. “Is this going to be another one of your loser stories?”

“Wha—Cora! That hurts! I do not tell loser stories.”

“Okay, great, so this won’t end up being an hour of you waxing poetic about that dweeb you’re crushing on?”

Stiles chokes on some of his hot chocolate.

“What’s his name again?” she teases, with a twitch of her lips and a dangerous quirk of her eyebrow. “John? Dick?”

“Fuck off,” he grumbles. “And just for that, I’m not telling you his name. You’ll never know.”

“Oh no,” she deadpans.

“Yeah, that’s right, oh no. Believe me; you’re missing out because this guy is like seriously the hottest person I’ve ever seen in my whole life, which I guess you already know since I  _wax poetic_  about him all the time.”

Cora shrugs, fiddling with an empty coffee cup. “Dark hair? Nice ass? That’s all I remember.”

“There is so much more, Cora,” Stiles sighs imperiously. “So much more.”

“I’m sure there is, idiot,” she mutters, though she’s smiling as she drifts away to mess with the espresso machine.

Stiles glares at her for a minute because  _what does she know_  before his phone vibrates in his pocket and he pulls it out to see a panicked text from Scott:

_Dude I’m at Isaac’s over on State St. Our papers are due tomorrow and they suck!!! Please come help revise!???? There’s cookies!_

He sighs and slides off the stool, makes a face at Cora when she waves good-bye.

***

He finds the apartment with relative ease, and a wide-eyed, twitching Scott pulls the door open.

“Stiles!” he half-shouts. “Oh my God, dude, thank you for coming! We’re so screwed—“

“Scotty, calm down.” He shoulders his way into the hallway, the smell of chocolate chip cookies assaulting his senses. He lets out a loud moan, placing a reassuring hand on Scott’s shoulder. “First cookies. Then papers.”

Isaac is just pulling out a second tray of cookies when they get to the kitchen and _yes_. This means  _warm cookies_. Stiles makes another sound deep in his throat and Isaac quirks an eyebrow at him.

“How many can I have?” Stiles asks.

Isaac shrugs. “You help me pass this paper, you can have as many as you want.”

“ _Yes_. Oh my god, any time you guys need something proofread just call me up.”

“Noted,” he says, a little half-smile sliding onto his face. He turns towards the living room. “Derek! Cookies are done!”

Stiles is more than a little distracted with shoving three cookies into his mouth at once, but the name bounces around in his head for a minute before he snorts. “Dude,” he mumbles through a mouthful of wonderful amazing cookie perfection. “How weird. That’s the name of the hot weatherman I’m in love with—“

“Excuse me,” someone grunts out from behind him, and Stiles jumps and spins and comes face to face with—

Derek Hale.  _Derek Hale._  The same fucking Derek Hale who can make tropical depressions sound sexy is standing in front of Stiles. In a Henley. And sweatpants.

“Holy—Jesus God,” he splutters, struggling to swallow the rest of the cookie without like  _dying_  or something.

Derek barely spares him a glance, instead piling up a few cookies on a napkin and fuck fuck  _shit_  his hair is flattened on one side like he’s been curled up in bed and Stiles wants to curl up with him and holy god is this really happening?

“You  _are_  the hot weatherman I’m in love with,” Stiles croaks out lamely, still in some sort of shock.

Isaac muffles a laugh with his hand, Scott cringes, but Derek just turns and looks at him.

_Glares_  at him really.

Jeez, he’s like fucking  _glowering_  like he’s somehow offended and Stiles is suddenly acutely aware that he’s wearing an old flannel shirt and beat up jeans and he hasn’t showered today and probably has chocolate on his teeth.

Derek’s eyebrows look like they’re threatening to  _eat_  his eyes and this is not the Derek that Stiles is accustomed to seeing. This is not flirty, smiling happy Derek, this is like  _I’m a serial killer on the weekends_  Derek but somehow it’s even hotter?? 

What the  _fuck_.

“I’m a meteorologist,” Derek finally  ~~says~~  growls.

“Uhm.”

He stalks out of the kitchen without another word, and has already slammed the door to the bedroom by the time Stiles finds a way to breathe again.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek Hale is in the next room. In sweatpants. Eating cookies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter two yaaaaay!! Just a heads up, the next chapter will take at least a week (or two). My family's coming in for Thanksgiving next week and I have finals to focus on. I'll update, it just might take a little longer, so don't lose hope! :) xo

***

Scott shatters the stunned silence in the kitchen with a passionate: “Dude, I didn’t know! I knew Isaac had a roommate but I had no idea _his_ Derek was _your_ Derek; I swear, I would have warned you, you know that—“

“Yeah,” Stiles says numbly, waving away his unnecessary apologies.  

Scott shoots a look at Isaac and his blue eyes widen, like he’s going to start spewing out apologies too, but all Stiles wants is to sit down and process everything that just happened so he waves his hand some more, says: “It’s fine,” and stuffs another cookie into his mouth.

 Things don’t really get any better from there.

 He’s still keyed up and jittery ten minutes later; and he’s trying to focus on proof-reading the papers, but is ultimately too distracted by the thought of Derek Hale ( _the_ Derek Hale) eating cookies in the next room over.

Derek Hale is in the next room. In sweatpants. Eating cookies.

He shifts restlessly, eyeing the wall separating the apartment’s living room from Derek’s bedroom.

 _Holy shit_. Stiles is less than 50 feet from Derek Hale’s _bedroom_.

There’s a sudden influx of images in his brain (all dealing with Derek in some level of undress) and there are limits, okay? There are some things that Stiles’s brain can’t handle and the possibility that Derek Hale, Hot Weatherman Extraordinaire could be in there _right now_ , sprawled out on top of his bed with an erection straining against the cloth of his pants is just—

He lets out a strangled noise and jumps up, stumbling over to the couch where Scott and Isaac are playing GTA 4. 

He needs a distraction. A big distraction. Something that has absolutely _nothing_ to do with Derek Hale.

Which is exactly why he demands:

“Is he _always_ like that? Or did I just piss him off somehow?”

 “Derek?” Isaac asks quietly, pausing the game as Stiles plunks down onto the arm of the sofa. “You didn’t piss him off. Not _that_ much, at least. He's just…”

“Terrifyingly hot?”

“I was going to say grumpier than usual, but sure let’s go with that.” Isaac grins a little bit. “Look, don’t worry about it. As long as you left him some cookies, you’ll be fine.”

Stiles’s stomach drops.

“Wait— _What?_ ” he squawks at the same moment that Derek’s door opens and he comes into the living room. His eyes skate over the three of them uninterestedly as he makes his way to the kitchen and Stiles feels all the breath punch out of him again (because he really is like 60 times hotter in person and also he might be panicking a little bit now).

“Dude what’s wrong?” Scott asks worriedly.

“I didn’t know I was supposed to leave him cookies!” Stiles hisses frantically, dropping his head into his hands. “Nobody told me that! Isaac specifically said I could have as many as I wanted!”

“There was almost a whole tray left,” Isaac says incredulously.

“ _I’m a nervous eater_!” 

“The cookies are gone,” Derek states, suddenly reemerging from the kitchen. His face is blank, unreadable, and Stiles has never considered the fact that he might have a kink for dark and broody people, but Derek is seriously making him rethink his sexual choices right now.

“Yeah,” he says, flushing horribly when his voice breaks. _Fuck_. “Uh. Sorry about that.”

Derek blinks, eyes locking with his. His eyebrows twitch. “You ate them?”

“Well—“

“Technically we _all_ ate them,” Isaac puts in, and Stiles nods vigorously in agreement.

Derek doesn’t look impressed.

***

It’s weird watching _Hale Storm_ after that. 

Derek smiles and makes jokes and generally acts like a really nice guy and it’s weird because Stiles knows he’s _not_.

Sure, he’s still mind-numbingly gorgeous, but watching his whole TV persona suddenly feels like wearing wet socks. It’s almost uncomfortable in how wrong it feels—especially since now that Stiles is actually looking, it’s almost _too easy_ to spot the jagged edges of Derek’s smile and the deprecation in a lift of his eyebrow. 

He can’t believe he didn’t see it before. 

Jackson gets back from the gym in the middle of the newest show and Stiles must look really unsettled, because he pauses on his way to the shower and asks: “What crawled up your butt, Stilinski?” 

In Jackson Speak, that's the same as: "Hey man, you okay?" and maybe that's why Stiles decides to tell Jackson all about meeting The Real Derek and accidentally eating his cookies and how he’s pretty sure Derek hates him now because he’s not at all what he’s like on TV. He really should have expected it, since Jackson lives to torment people, but when he's finished talking, Jackson snorts.

The douchebag thinks it’s _funny_. 

He’s still laughing when Danny gets home an hour later. 

(Danny, of course, forgoes any kind of support in favor of judging Stiles for eating a whole tray of cookies at someone else’s house.) 

*** 

“I’ve given up,” he tells Scott two days later, flopping down inelegantly on his bed. “I am actually giving up. This, right here? This is me giving up.” 

Scott wrinkles his nose, pausing in his half-hearted attempt to organize his closet. “Giving up what?” 

“I am giving up any chance of ever regaining my dignity from Derek Hale.” 

“Stiles, it wasn’t that bad.” 

“You know, I didn’t think so either at first; but listening to Jackson snicker under his breath _non-stop_ has really put things into perspective.” 

“Dude, just ignore him. If you wanted to, you could totally regain your dignity.” 

Stiles raises an disinterested eyebrow. “You think so?” 

“Of course. Derek’s a dick, but he's not _that_ much of a dick.” 

“ _Hey_ —“ 

“I know, I know; you have a raging boner for him. Whatever, that doesn’t change the fact that he’s _mean_.” 

“You said Lydia was mean too.”

“Lydia _is_ mean.”

“Yeah,” Stiles murmurs fondly.

There’s a pause, and then: “I’m going over to Isaac’s tomorrow. Why don’t you come with me?”

“And be the awkward third wheel? No thanks, man.”

“No, come on. I can invite Allison, we can all hang out together. You’ll—you could get a second chance at a first impression.”

And that.

That actually sounds great.

Stiles can do this.

Plus, if Allison’s there, Derek will _have_ to be nice because her dimples rival Danny’s and _no one_ can stay grumpy when faced with Allison Argent's smile. And if Derek is being nice, then that means Stiles can make an awesome second impression and Derek will forget everything that happened last time he saw Stiles and they can have an actual conversation and Stiles can ask him why he's a meteorologist if he hates it so much and they can make out in his bedroom and Stiles can die happy and...

Yeah, Stiles can _totally_ do this.

***

"Cora, I can't do this.”

"Stiles."

“How the hell am I supposed to make a good second impression? _I can’t_. Oh my God; just help me, please, I’ll do anything." 

“ _Stiles_ —“

"Like seriously, name it and I’ll do it. _Anything_ , okay? Just, what do you want?”

“I want you to _shut up_ before I hit you. You’re scaring off the customers.”

Stiles sobers slightly, staring forlornly at his tepid latte before Cora sighs loudly. “Alright, _fine_ , let’s hear it; how much did you fuck up the first impression?”

He winces. “Uh. Well. I may have unwittingly confessed my crush on him, belittled his profession and then ate all of his cookies. But he was grumpy in the first place, so—don’t _laugh_ at me!”

“Oh my God—“

“This isn’t funny!”

“It’s a—It’s a little funny.”

“It’s not,” Stiles moans, giving up on drinking his coffee and letting his head thunk against the bar. Fuck his life. “I looked this up. You have _no idea_ how hard first impressions are to reverse.”

She sighs, tapping on his skull until he looks up at her petulantly. “Maybe you should just be yourself,” she suggests, quirking one challenging eyebrow.

“Be myself? Have you _met_ me? That’s a terrible idea.”

“Oh come on. You’re not a bad guy. You just try too hard sometimes.”

“ _Ouch_.”

She rolls her eyes and tugs on her ponytail. “Stop over-thinking this. He’s just a guy.”

“Uh—I’m pretty sure he’s actually a sex machine. And he literally spent 80% of our time together glaring daggers into my soul with his beautiful kaleidoscope eyes.”

“Oh God, you’re going to make me gag. They’re just _cookies_. Can’t you make him some more and call it even?”

Stiles slumps even more. “I was informed that the cookies were made from his grandmother’s secret recipe. Apparently he’s horrible at cooking and his roommate only makes them every once in a while... I mean—fuck, how am I supposed to compete with _his grandmother’s_ secret recipe?”

“Ugh, you are _hopeless_!” She grunts and turns away, rummaging through a drawer before throwing an index card in his face. “There. That’s _my_ family’s secret recipe and I can tell you without a doubt that it’s better than whatever shitty cookies you ate. Now _go_.”

“But why are you giving it to me if it’s secret—“

“Go!”

***

Stiles makes the cookies.

He makes the cookies and sticks them in a Tupperware container (leaving the burned ones on the counter for Jackson), and by the time Scott’s ready to go he’s almost paralyzed with nerves.

Stiles had tasted a cookie right after they came out of the oven and he thought that they tasted pretty much almost exactly like Derek’s grandmother's cookies. He’s not sure if that means he just hasn’t developed superior chocolate chip cookie taste-buds yet or if he's accidentally butchered Cora’s Family recipe and made “shitty” cookies, but there are thousands of possibilities running through his mind, and each and every possibility includes Stiles screwing things up even more. Hopefully he doesn’t like insult the memory of Derek’s dead grandmother with his subpar cookies. Wouldn’t that be fucking peachy.

When Scott tells him he's ready, the nerves dissipate a bit and he happily listens to his best friend's chatter all the way to Allison’s house and up the small flight of stairs to the apartment and he feels like there's a pretty good chance tonight will go exactly as planned.

And then the door to the apartment swings open and Derek’s standing there in a dark green Henley and jeans.

Really tight jeans.

Holy _God_ , the jeans are even worse than the sweatpants.

Stiles brain kind of shorts out and Derek’s just standing there _staring_ at him and he can’t think of anything but what it would be like to peel those pants off of his legs.

Scott’s moving past him, giving Derek a nod and shouting for Isaac simultaneously and Stiles swallows down a whimper.

“The heat is on,” Derek finally says pointedly because duh, it’s the middle of October and it’s chilly outside and the door is open because Stiles _still hasn’t moved_.

“Right!” he exclaims, a little too loudly. “Uh, shit sorry.”

He hurries into the house, loitering awkwardly in the front hallway as Derek locks the door (and it’s totally not his fault that he takes this glorious opportunity to ogle his ass in those jeans because holy _fuck_ ). When he turns around, he looks surprised to see Stiles still standing there.

“Uh, here,” he mutters, shoving the cookies unceremoniously into Derek’s hands.

He eyes it like he's never seen Tupperware before, or possibly like he thinks it might blow up in his hands.

“They’re cookies,” Stiles adds, with just a hint of sarcasm.

Derek frowns at him.

“You know, because I ate the other ones?”

“Oh,” Derek says.

And then he walks away.

Stiles isn’t an expert on Cookie Etiquette, but he’s pretty sure you’re not supposed to supposed to say “Oh” and walk away. He’s pretty sure there’s some sort of thanking involved.

And yet, here he is, standing in the front hallway with his mouth half open (decidedly _un-thanked_ ), wondering if Derek even knows how to speak more than five words at once.

Actually—he’s _seen_ Hale Storm. He _knows_ that Derek can speak in long sentences and that he can sound quite eloquent while doing so. Which means he just doesn’t want to speak more than five words to Stiles.

Which.

Great.

That’s just _great_.

Reversing his first impression is suddenly looking to be just as hard (if not harder than) he'd anticipated.

He sighs loudly and follows Derek into the kitchen. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The plan falls to shit immediately.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alrighty WOOHOO Chapter Three! I am so sorry to keep everyone waiting, this chapter took longer than I thought it would (obviously). On the bright side, it's longer than the first two and rife with Sterek interaction, so I hope it's worth the wait! :) Thank you so much to everyone who's stuck around! :) xo

***

The plan falls to shit immediately.

Like, _immediately_.

The whole second chance at a first impression thing kind of hinged on Derek being charmed into a good mood by Allison’s dimples, but nothing of the sort happens.

In fact, the second Stiles walks into the kitchen, Allison’s saying, “Yeah, you work with my aunt!” and Derek looks like he’d rather be in the lowest circle of hell than talking amiably with Allison Argent.

It makes no fucking sense.

Her dimple game is strong. Scott is gazing lovingly at her. Even Isaac is enthralled. Derek should be smiling or responding or relaxing or _something_.

He should not be standing stiff as a board and looking like he’s just been presented with a dead fish.

Allison’s smile falters and her outstretched hand wavers slightly.

“You’re supposed to shake it,” Stiles stage-whispers to Derek—who glowers at him in response.

Stiles shrugs, and Derek gives Allison’s hand a quick shake, like he’s scared to touch her for more than a millisecond.

Then he steps back and stares at the floor, shoulders hunched and rigid and Stiles is on the verge of making another half-assed attempt at breaking the tension when Isaac says, “Let’s eat!” and Derek all but sprints away to his chair.

And alright, that’s fine, sometimes plans don’t go smoothly—Stiles can handle this. He doesn’t exactly have a Plan B, but how hard can it be to make some friendly conversation over dinner? Talking is one of his greatest skills.

He can totally salvage the situation.

***

Protip: If someone (read: Derek Hale) responds negatively to Allison Argent’s dimples, the situation is unsalvageable.

He supposes he probably should have expected it, because it’s not like Derek has been anything resembling friendly in the three times they’ve spoken to each other, but that doesn’t mean every roll of Derek’s eyes doesn’t hit him like a punch to the gut.

And seriously, by the time dinner is over and everyone (except Derek) is gathered in the living room, Stiles is pretty pissed off.

The thing is, Stiles doesn’t take shit from anybody. Not even ridiculously attractive walking wet dreams like Derek Hale. And like, maybe Derek was upset over Allison for some reason, and maybe he wasn't aware that when someone takes the time to bake you cookies you appreciate it, but that just means that someone needs to tell him. _Stiles_ needs to tell him. Stiles needs to inform him of his epic douchebag behavior because honestly, he's almost worse than Jackson and somewhere around the third disdainful look and the second helping of dinner, Stiles stopped wanting to climb Derek like a tree and started wanting to give him a piece of his mind. 

So Stiles makes it about ten minutes into the post-dinner party before he cracks.

“I’ll be right back,” he mumbles distractedly, interrupting Isaac’s delighted claim of: “No way—you’re a Communications major too?”

Allison gives him an absent-minded wave, too intent on bonding over common interests with Isaac, but Scott picks his head up from where it’s been resting on his girlfriend’s shoulder and shoots Stiles a questioning look.

“I’m fine, I’m just gonna—I’ll be back—“ Stiles says again, skirting around the coffee table. Scott looks like he wants to ask something, but ends up shrugging and settling back into Allison, and Stiles lets the tight smile he’d been sporting fall off his face as he enters the kitchen.

The room is warm and bright—the smell of spaghetti sauce and garlic bread still lingering in the air—and yet Derek is standing at the sink, glaring out the window like the view has personally offended him.

Stiles sighs heavily. Derek’s back tenses at the sound.

“You’re welcome,” he says pointedly, before he can think of something better to say.

Derek turns to face him slowly, his face arranged into a carefully neutral expression. He doesn’t say anything, just raises his eyebrows in a way that Stiles assumes means _what the hell are you talking about._

He rolls his eyes. “For the _cookies_. Remember? The big box of chocolate chip cookies? No? Yes?” There’s a beat. “Jesus, do you ever speak when you’re not flirting with your TV audience?”

Derek continues to stare at him, expression unreadable, and Stiles fights off a cringe. For a second, he feels kind of bad, but then Derek stalks over to the opposite counter and grabs the cookies; holds them up and says, “I didn’t ask for these,” and fucking—

He’s such an _asshole_.

He’s an asshole for absolutely no reason too; it’s not like Stiles scratched up his car or slept with his sister. Does Derek even _have_ a sister?

Stiles decides he hates him a little bit.

“I _know_ you didn’t ask for them,” Stiles snarks out, crossing his arms and quirking a challenging eyebrow. “But it’s common courtesy to thank someone when they give you a gift.”

“I wouldn’t call this a gift.”

“Oh, really, big guy? What would you call it then?”

“A box of shitty cookies.”

Stiles mouth gapes open.

There’s a moment—a split-second when it looks like Derek might be smirking—but then he’s back to being infuriatingly blank-faced and Stiles is too annoyed to think about it any further

“If you don’t want them, give them back,” he demands, crossing the kitchen in two long strides and holding out a hand.

Derek hurriedly jerks the box out of Stiles’s reach, hiding it behind the broad expanse of his back like a little kid playing keep away. “I didn’t say I didn’t want them,” he grits out, mouth contorting into a scowl.

Stiles narrows his eyes. “You called them shitty cookies. That’s a pretty big red flag, dude.”

Derek doesn’t respond and Stiles tries (and fails) to reach the box again.

“Have you even tried them yet?” he asks exasperatedly.

“No.”

“So—wow, so you’re just _assuming_ they’re going to taste bad? That’s pretty fucking shitty of _you_.”

Derek’s nostrils flare.

Stiles forces himself to swallow down the words that want to bubble up, in favor of scowling back at Derek—but it’s hard. He wants to move, to pace, to get rid of the strange buzzing in his veins. He’s still pressed close to Derek, arms outstretched in a futile bid to grab the cookie box, and he can feel the heat emanating off of Derek’s body, smell the faint trace of cologne on his skin, see every fucking gold-blue-green fleck in his eyes. It’s almost enough to make him back off—if only to give his hormones a breather, but he _refuses_ to let Derek win this.

He’s rendered Lydia Martin speechless more than once, and if he can survive her, he can _totally_   take Derek Hale.

Sure enough, after an excruciating minute, Derek cuts his eyes away first, looking furious, and even though Stiles can feel a flush working its way onto his face, he’s smirking.

“Does this mean you’re thankful for the cookies?” he asks smugly and Derek’s murderous eyes flick back to him briefly before he snarls and slams the box of cookies onto the counter with a loud _smack_.

It’s not an answer, not really, but Stiles still feels like he won something.

“Hey—“ Scott says, jogging into the room. He stops short, eyes widening a little bit at the sight of them and Stiles hurriedly takes a step back, puts at least ten inches between them. It’s still too close, but Scott is already talking again, saying: “Uh—so Isaac just invited us to the Halloween Party he and Derek are having. Are you in?”

Derek’s head shoots up, eyes narrowing when they lock on Stiles’s. “No,” he growls out.

It sounds like an order.

And really, that’s the thing that makes Stiles emphatically say: “ _Yes_.”

***

Stiles is shoving things haphazardly in his backpack, already struggling with the now ever-present question of whether he should watch Hale-Storm this afternoon or not when Laura the TA clears her throat.

“Hey—everybody! I know this is last minute, but if any of you are interested in helping with the Fall Festival, come talk to me before you head out.”

Greenberg shifts nervously on his feet. “Do we get extra-credit if we help?”

She rolls her eyes. “Considering the Fall Festival has nothing to do with mythological folklore, no Greenberg. You won’t get extra-credit.”

Laura the TA hates Greenberg. It’s fucking hilarious, and Stiles never gets tired of watching her fight an uphill battle for patience and professionalism every time they interact.

He’s also really glad that she doesn’t hate him though, because Laura the TA is scary when she wants to be. She’s got a glare that can shut up a classroom in two seconds, and is also intimidatingly beautiful and intelligent—Laura the TA is pretty awesome, okay? Especially because she loves to talk as much as Stiles does.

The first time he visited her in her office, they got into a passionate debate about whether a werewolf retains humanity during the full moon and she threatened to fail him if he ever wrote a paper undermining the hundreds of myths that said they didn’t.

(He wrote the very next paper they had about it and even though she glared at him so hard he thought his balls might fall off, he got an A.)

Awesome.

Most of the students are shuffling out since there’s no real reward in helping with the festival, but Stiles goes every year anyways, so he bounces up to her desk and gives her his most winning smile.

“Stiles,” she says dryly. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

He snorts, tugging on the straps of his backpack. “Hey, if you don’t want help with the festival, just say the word…”

She sighs, long-suffering and over-dramatic, but a smile is pulling at her lips when she looks at him. “It starts on Saturday. Can you work the baked goods booth?”

***

The baked goods booth is nestled near the front of the field where the festival is being held. It’s overflowing with bags of brownies and cookies and cupcakes and fudge squares, and Stiles is so busy wondering if he’s allowed free samples that he doesn’t notice the girl lounging behind the table until she says, “You want to buy something?”

He jumps probably two feet in the air, hand coming up to clutch his chest as he stumbles backwards.

“Whoa, sorry,” she says, though the grin on her face suggests she isn’t sorry at all. Her legs are propped on the table, high heels glinting in the orange light from the nearby lamp, and Stiles has to clear his throat three times before he’s able to talk.

“No, it’s—my bad, I didn’t realize anyone else was—Laura didn’t—“

Recognition dawns on the girl’s face and she sits up straighter, her grin turning sharper. “You must be _Stiles_.”

He nods helplessly.

“Erica,” she introduces herself with a flick of blonde hair.

“Hi.”

She rolls her eyes. “Come on, get back here. I won’t bite.”

“Why don’t I believe that,” he mumbles.

She winks at him in return.

It’s easily apparent that Stiles was right to be suspicious, because within the next five minutes, she cons an unsuspecting boy into buying ten bags of peanut brittle with the power of her cleavage alone.

Stiles is pretty impressed.

“You’re—uh, very good at this,” he tells her after the third time she does it.

“It’s for a good cause,” she says flippantly, re-adjusting the v-neck of her sweater yet again. “Most of the proceeds go to private business owners or something, but the baked goods profits go to the nursing home.”

A grin breaks out over Stiles’s face. “No way, I had no idea—hey, do you think if we double team someone we could get double the money?”  

Erica gives him a considering look. “Are you kidding? If you just—“ she tugs his sweater sleeves up his forearms a little ways and runs a hand wildly through his hair until it’s tousled and sticking up.

“ _Hey_ —“

“Oh yeah,” she says suddenly. “We could easily get double the money. Just lick your lips a lot—and wink at people—“

“Yeah, I get it, jeez. I _know_ how to be sexy.”

 “Obviously,” she says, rolling her eyes. “But you have to be _extra_ sexy, okay?”

Stiles blinks. “Uh. Wait—are you saying that you—“

“And maybe just straight-out tell people that it’s for the nursing home. Everyone loves a guy with a sensitive side.”

“Okay, but—“

“Oh, there’s a girl coming over here, get ready!”

Stiles fidgets, running a hand over his chin as Erica sends her a blinding smile. “Wait," he says, suddenly nervous. "Uhm. Are you sure this is ethical—“

“Don’t you dare back out on me now Stilinski,” she hisses out of the corner of her mouth, and okay.

Yeah.

Stiles can do this. He can totally be sexy on command. He can totally, completely, undoubtedly—

Holy shit, that’s Derek Hale.

That is definitely Derek Hale in an orange sweater, storming towards the baked goods booth like some sort of deranged psycho killer.

He’s glaring at Stiles (of course) and passes up the girl easily in two long strides and fuck, Stiles should not be getting turned on by how predatory he looks, but he really _really_ is.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Derek asks, when he’s two feet away and Stiles can practically _see_ the steam coming out of his ears.

Stiles juts his chin out and gestures to the table. “What does it look like I’m doing? I’m selling baked goods—“

“Did you steal these recipes too?”

“What?”

“ _Did you_ —“

"Yeah, I heard you the first time, I just have no idea what you're talking about."

Derek lets out a staccato, mirthless laugh. "So you're denying that you stole my grandmother's recipe?" 

Stiles jerks. “Wait a second; is this about the _cookies_?” Even though Derek snarls at him, Stiles feels a spark of happiness. “Hey, did you actually eat them?”

“Yes, I fucking ate them,” Derek grinds out. “And I want to know how you got that recipe.”

Stiles frowns. “Dude chill, I got it from a friend—“

“Chill?” Derek asks incredulously. “You want me to chill after you _stole_ my grandmother’s recipe—“

“Okay, first of all,” Stiles begins hotly, “I didn’t steal anything. My friend gave it to me, jackass, because sometimes people do nice things. Second of all, it was not your grandmother’s recipe—“

“Yes it was—“

“ _No_ , it wasn’t—“

“I think I know what my grandmother’s cookies taste like,” Derek spits out, eyebrows furrowing even more. He still looks stupidly attractive and Stiles wants to punch him.

“And I think _I’d_ know if I devised some kind of fucked up plan to steal your family recipe. Jesus Christ, dude, I have better things to do with my time. They were just _cookies_.”

Derek’s lips thin. “Don’t call me dude.”

Stiles sighs loudly, crossing his arms tightly across his chest and he’s about to tell Derek to fuck the hell off when the implications of this argument hit him full force. “Okay, wait a second,” Stiles says, eyes narrowing suspiciously. “Are you telling me that my cookies tasted _so good_ that you thought they were your grandmother’s? Are you seriously angry at me for making decent cookies?”

“I’m angry at you because they _were_ my grandmother’s.”

“Seriously, thanks for the compliment, it means a lot, really, but you’re wrong.”

“I’m not!”

“Dude, you’re a weatherman—“

“ _Meteorologist_ —“

“Fine, you’re a fucking meteorologist. Do you know what that means? Huh, do you?” Derek doesn’t move. “It means you are not a professional taste tester! It means you probably liked the cookies so much that you _mistakenly_ thought they were your grandmother’s.”

Derek’s eyebrows twitch violently.

“Yeah, that’s right buddy, you made a mistake. Now just admit it so we can move on with our lives.”

He scoffs. “In your dreams.”

“Then buy some brownies,” Stiles says sharply. “Then I’ll think about forgiving you and you can help support the nursing home.”

“I don’t need your forgiveness—“

“But you _do_ want to support the nursing home, right?” Stiles asks, eyes wide. He licks his lips for good measure and Derek glares harder. “You’re not _that_ much of a dick, right?”

Derek stares at him in disbelief for a moment before he growls something unintelligible and whips his wallet out of his back pocket. He turns pointedly to Erica (which, oops, Stiles kind of forgot she was even standing there) and holds out a five dollar bill. “Give me a box of—of red velvet cupcakes,” he demands.

Stiles can’t help the smug smile that spreads across his face.

Erica hands him the box wordlessly, looking like she’s been hit on the head with something, and Derek’s turning to stalk away in the next moment. He pauses long enough to give Stiles another glare and bite out: "I'm going to find out how you got that recipe."

“It was nice to see you again,” Stiles says sardonically, because he always likes to have the last word.

“Don’t show up at my Halloween Party,” Derek calls over his shoulder. He doesn't even bother to look at Stiles while he says it, and for some reason it makes his blood run hot and his hands fist by his sides.

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world!” he yells defiantly back.

Stiles _does not_ watch his ass as he stalks away.

(Except that he totally does.)

“I _hate_ that guy,” he mutters sourly.

Erica laughs so hard, she has to sit down.

***

Stiles wakes up on Sunday morning to find Isaac Lahey carving pumpkins with Scott in their kitchen and he gets a horrible, _wonderful_ idea.

“Hey, Isaac,” he says as sweetly as possible, sliding into the chair next to him.

Isaac looks up from his pumpkin warily. “Stiles.”

“You’re friends with Derek, right?” Stiles asks, trying very hard for nonchalant but probably achieving something closer to creepy uncle.

“Duh.”

“Right. So you know what he likes and doesn’t like—“

“I’m not setting you two up on a date. No way. Sorry, he would kill me—“

“What—what the—who says I want to date him?” Stiles sputters.

“Dude,” Scott snorts.

Isaac shrugs. “It’s kind of obvious. I mean, you did tell him you were in love with him the first time you s—“

“ _Okay_ ,” Stiles says, waving his arms to cut off that particular conversation. He had successfully blocked that out, thank you. Besides, that had happened when he was still under the impression that Derek was nice. He had been _misinformed_ , alright? “That’s not—that has nothing to do with…trust me, this is not about that. I just really, really need to know what he hates. I need an insider’s point of view. Like, I know he hates when people eat his cookies or make fun of his job, but I need something more—I. Oh. My _God_. Oh my god. He hates when people make fun of his job, doesn’t he?”

Isaac frowns. “Yeah...”

“He hates it when people make fun of his job. Oh my god, this is perfect.”

“What’s perfect?” Scott asks, abandoning his pumpkin in order to stare at Stiles.

Stiles grins triumphantly. “I know what costume I’m going to wear to the Halloween Party.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Stiles, what the hell are you wearing?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! Thank you to all the people who have been patient with this chapter; I can GUARANTEE the next chapter will be up quicker than this one was. Also thank you to KARAZ, who had the greatest idea ever for Stiles's costume. That said, I hope you enjoy the story! :) xo

***

“Stiles, what the _hell_ are you wearing?”

Danny retracts his head from the fridge at Jackson’s outburst, and it’s almost comical how fast his eyebrows fly up to meet his hairline.

“I thought you were going as a weatherman,” he says carefully, letting the door swing shut with a dull thud.

Stiles rolls his eyes and fiddles with the end of his tie. “I _am_ a weatherman.

Jackson snorts. “You’re an idiot.”

“Says the guy who’s afraid of a tiny dog,” he answers dryly.

“That ‘tiny dog’ almost _ripped my fingers off_ —“

“Oh _dude_ —“ he gasps in mock concern as Jackson sneers, “Lydia told me she’s bringing Prada to the party tonight, is _that_ why you aren’t going?”

“Shut the fuck up Stilinski, that dog _hates_ me—“

“It’s like six inches tall—“

“Stiles,” Danny interrupts calmly, laying a hand on Jackson’s shoulder and squeezing slightly. “You cannot leave the apartment like that. You’re in your _underwear_.”

“It’s a joke!” he exclaims, gesturing to his boxer-briefs in exasperation. “The whole thing about how weathermen ‘don’t wear pants’ because the camera shoots from the waist up? I know you know this.”

“But I thought you said Derek hated it when people made fun of his job?”

“That’s the _point_ ,” he groans, pushing past them both to grab his cellphone from the couch. “Trust me; it’s going to be great.”

Danny frowns.

***

“Lydia and Allison said they’d meet us outside,” Scott says, one hand raking through his still-drying hair gel.

“Dude, stop messing with your hair, you look fine.” He bats his hand away before tripping out of the jeep, shivering slightly in the chilly air.

“Are you sure?” Scott asks urgently. “Because Allison sent me a picture of her costume and she looks good—“

“Wow,” Stiles says, stopping short. “I think _good_ is kind of an understatement, Scott.”

It’s the understatement of the century, actually.

Allison is leaning against the side of the apartment building next to Lydia, dressed in a sinfully tight spandex suit and a blonde wig, red lipstick smeared across her lips. If Stiles wasn’t aware that she and Scott had been planning to be Sandy and Danny for like three months, he might’ve thought she was some sort of bad-ass seductress-assassin because Jesus, those stilettos looked like they could probably double as lethal weapons.

Stiles chances a glance at Scott, whose mouth is hanging slack, leather jacket held loosely in one hand.

“ _Dude_ ,” he says.

“Whoa,” Scott breathes, and that’s all the warning Stiles gets before he’s being abandoned.

Lydia has the good sense to desert Allison before Scott can get close enough to initiate any sort of PDA and comes tottering towards Stiles in a garishly pink outfit and glittering high heels, hair softly curled and Prada sticking out of her oversized handbag.

“Weatherman,” she says the second she gets through pecking him on the cheek. “Cute.”

“Elle Woods,” he replies, with an approving nod. “Even cuter.”

She smiles perkily at him while Prada barks excitedly and leads him towards the door in a swirl of flowery perfume.

“I should warn you,” she says as they climb up the stairs together. “Jackson wants me to capture your humiliation on camera.”

He rolls his eyes. “Of course he does."

“You don’t sound worried.”

“I’m not. Derek’s going to be _way_ too pissed to make fun of me.”

“And what about anybody else you run into?” Lydia asks, quirking a brow.

“That’s the beauty of my plan,” Stiles sighs. “I’m not going to know anybody else at this party!”

Of course, immediately following this (in retrospect, much too optimistic) declaration, he opens the door and collides with someone who looks suspiciously like Laura the TA.

She’s trying to get out and he’s trying to get in and they do an awkward dance with each other for a second before she laughs and flicks her gaze up to meet his. And yep.

That’s Laura.

That’s Laura the TA in swirling, metallic body paint and a shimmery leotard. And he’s in his underwear.

Fucking Jackson totally jinxed him.

“Sorry, I—“ she freezes, smiles faltering. “ _Stiles?_ ”

“Hi,” he says sheepishly, rubbing a hand along the back of his neck.

“Hi.”

He hears the _click_ of Lydia’s camera phone from behind him and closes his eyes in despair as she squeezes past him and gives him a pat on the shoulder.

“I—damn it, I was hoping I wouldn’t see any of my students tonight.” Laura laughs again, but it’s a lot more nervous than before. When he opens his eyes, it’s to the sight of her fruitlessly trying to smooth down her hair—which is sparkly and wild and does not in any way, shape or form resemble the semi-neat bun she usually keeps it in. “I think there’s some sort of rule against this.”

Stiles clears his throat. “Probably. That’s a—nice costume.”

“Oh—yeah, uh, thanks. I’m a fairy.”

“It’s nice,” he repeats lamely, keeping his eyes away from the cleavage on display by sheer force of will.  

Laura shifts on her feet. “Well. This has been sufficiently awkward. Nice underwear.” Stiles feels his cheeks burn red. God, just kill him _now_. “You know, I think it would be in both of our interests if we just pretend this never happened.”

“Yes please,” he says, voice strangled.

She nods, but before Stiles can beat a hasty retreat, her eyes spark and a dangerous smirk quirks her lips. “Only until the end of the semester though. As soon as you aren’t my student anymore, I’m going to make fun of you _so hard_.” 

He groans as she slips away, laughing to herself.

Fucking Jackson.

***

In the time it takes to get to the kitchen, he sees four people he recognizes from classes—including Danielle, who’s in his Psychology class and can make someone rethink their life’s choices with a single look.

Stiles is definitely rethinking his life’s choices right now. 

“You should have worn pants,” he mumbles to himself, scanning the crowd fruitlessly for a head of strawberry blonde hair (or an unfairly attractive asshole with murder in his gaze). “You should have at least worn _boxers_ —Stiles, buddy, you did not think this through very well."

“Hey, loser,” someone says, thumping him on the back. He startles, jolting forward and spinning around all in one ungraceful move, hoping against hope that it’s not Danielle, anyone but Danielle—

It’s Cora. Looking adorable in a Dorothy costume.

Which is actually kind of worse.

Stiles gapes. “Are you kidding me? What the hell are you doing here?”

She smirks. “What are _you_ doing here? And why are you talking to yourself?”

He gestures weakly to his underwear. “I’m just in the process of regretting some choices I made. Like usual.”

She pushes a drink into his hands that he gratefully takes a gulp of, wincing as it burns a path down his throat. Lydia appears out of nowhere and snaps a picture which is just _great_.

Cora tugs on one pigtail, eyeing him for a long few seconds before laughing suddenly, sharp and delighted. “Wait a second—did you—are you dressed as a _weatherman_?”

He gives her a thumbs up. “Got it in one.”

“This is the best thing that’s ever happened to me. You definitely should not regret wearing underwear.”

“Thanks…I think.”

“You might want to stay away from any _real_ weathermen, though.” She winks. “I have a reliable source who tells me they get pretty touchy about shit like this.”

“I know!” Stiles says, unable to stop a grin from creeping on his face. “The whole reason I picked this costume is because there actually _is_ a weatherman here tonight.”

“Yeah—“

“Hey—at least if I get thrown through a window you’ll understand why.”

“Wait.” Cora blinks. “Hold on, do—do you know Derek?”

Stiles chokes on another sip of his drink because those were absolutely the _last_ words he had expected to come out of her mouth.  He’s suddenly immensely grateful that Cora doesn’t know Derek is the one he’d been pathetically pining over for the past month. Not that he’s pining any more. He hates him now. 

Obviously.

He shakes his head clear. “Do _you_ know Derek?”

Cora gives him a strange look. “Uh. Yeah. He’s my—“

“Stiles!” Scott shows up out of nowhere, latching onto Stiles’s jacket sleeve like it’s his saving grace. “Dude—dude, I fucked up you have to help me!”

“What?” He shoves his cup back towards Cora, who makes a face at him but takes it nonetheless. “Scott, what happened?”

“I made a horrible mistake! Such a horrible mistake! Oh God, man…”

Cora’s eyes widen and she takes a step back. Stiles starts running over various misdemeanors and felonies in his head. “Scott,” he says, shaking his shoulders roughly. “Scott, hey, snap out of it. What the hell did you do, man? You didn’t kill someone, did you? Do we need to call my dad? I—”

“I swear I didn’t mean to do it!” he moans. “I was trying to be romantic—I came up behind her and spun her around and I thought I was kissing Allison! She had blonde hair and the same costume and everything! How was I supposed to know there were two Sandys at this party?”

“Two Sa—? Are you telling me you kissed the wrong Sandy?”

“ _Yes_!”

Cora obviously doesn't understand how bad this is because she gives the most dramatic eye roll Stiles has ever been privy too. “Sounds like you’ve got an emergency on your hands,” she says, snorting softly. “Catch you later, idiot.”

“Bye,” he manages to tell her before Scott drags him towards the living room aaaand yep, there’s two almost identically scary looking blondes staring at each other with their arms crossed and before Stiles can even take a breath, Scott is shoving him in between them with a frantic sort of sound and Stiles almost knocks down—

“ _Erica?”_

He should have known.

“Stiles,” she says, predatory smirk giving way to shock for a split-second.

“Stiles, do you know her?” Allison asks, just as Lydia shows up with her best bitch-glare blazing.

“What is going on over here?” she asks tightly. Prada growls. “Why does it look like you’re about to get into a fight?”

Allison grins—and it’s so completely different from the sweet smile she’s usually sporting, Stiles shivers. “Probably because I am.”

“Okay, hold on,” Stiles says, holding up his hands. “Let’s try to talk this through; get a little dialogue going, huh? Doesn’t that sound like a much better option? I think so.”

Erica huffs, and tosses him a glare, but relaxes minutely. “Look honey, I’m not trying to steal your boyfriend, even if he does have a really cute innocent puppy-dog look going for him. I didn’t even know he was your boyfriend, and besides I already have a boyfriend who’s very satisfying—“

“Get to the point, _honey_ ,” Lydia murmurs.

“ _He_ kissed _me_.”

Allison jerks like she’s been slapped. “ _Scott_?”

Lydia clicks her tongue, bitch-glare focusing on Scott with almost frightening speed.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to!” he blurts out and Stiles throws his hands up in the air and trips a step back. He’s willing to do a lot of things for Scott—case in point: that time he almost got arrested with him (Danny and Jackson were there too, but the sentiment still counts) because he backed him up when he got into a bar fight on Third Street—but he is _not_ braving the wrath of Allison _and_ Lydia.

He’s in the process of retreating, leaving Erica to fend for herself because she actually looks like she’s enjoying this, when his roving eyes latch onto a very angry looking figure moving towards him.

He stops in his tracks, ignoring the thrill of arousal that shoots through him at the sight of Derek (finally). That is not a Pavlovian response that needs to develop _especially_ when he’s wearing underwear.

“ _Stiles_ —“ he starts to growl out when he gets closer but then his eyes catch on the bottom half of Stiles’s costume and just stops, stumbling to a halt with his mouth open dumbly.

Stiles barely holds in a snort.

This is going to be _awesome_.

Someone chooses that moment to knock into the back of Derek and send him flying forward, his drink sloshing over the edges of the cup and onto his sex-on-legs t-shirt and _leather jacket_ combo. Stiles is surprised his faculties are even working because the leather jacket is kind of shorting out his brain cells, but his arms move on a reflex and steady Derek with one hand on his shoulder and one hand on his waist. His muscles are firm under his touch, heat emanating off of Derek’s body in waves, and it makes Stiles feel a little dizzy.

“Fuck,” Derek mumbles under his breath, and Stiles decides that a) Derek is entirely too close to him to be saying things like that and b) he definitely should have worn some pants because boxer-briefs are not conducive to hiding the inevitable erection it seems he’s going to be left with.

“Uh.”

“Fuck,” he says again, louder this time, as he straightens up and looks down at his ruined shirt.

Stiles swallows loudly and Derek’s eyes flicker up to his, expression darkening even further.

“So…” Stiles clears his throat. “What are you dressed as? Angry moron?”

He gives Stiles a sarcastic grin. “I’m a werewolf.”

“You don’t look like a werewolf.”

“It’s not a full moon,” he sneers back.

“But—“

“Shut up and come with me,” he spits out tersely, and turns on his heel to walk away.

Stiles only hesitates for a second.

***

So, Stiles is about to go inside Derek Hale’s bedroom.

That’s a thing that is happening.

He’s going inside Derek Hale’s bedroom, staring at Derek’s rumpled gray bed sheets and soft looking red blanket that screams, ‘cuddle with me’ and _Stiles is in Derek Hale’s bedroom_.        

He only has another second to look around at the otherwise freakishly neat room before Derek is slamming the door shut behind him and pushing Stiles up against the wall.

“Wha—“ he squeaks out.

“You wanna tell me why you’re dressed like that?” he growls out, and the sound goes straight to Stiles’s cock. He definitely, _definitely_ should have worn pants because the fact that there’s only a thin layer of material separating him from Derek’s jean-clad thigh is making him thicken up at an alarming rate—which is a horrible thing to have happening when Derek is pressed up against him. Derek smiles slightly, eyes flickering in between Stiles’s eyes and mouth like he knows what he wants and—fuck, he can barely think straight but he refuses to let Derek have the upper hand.

“You want to tell me why you’re getting your beer-soaked shirt all over mine?” Stiles shoots back.

Derek glares at him and steps back, throwing his jacket onto the bed and stripping his shirt off.

Which, _what the fuck_.

Stiles’s mouth goes dry at the sight of all that skin and his _abs_ ; holy shit he has a lot of abs.

“Whoa,” he croaks out as Derek steps close again. “What—uh, what are you doing there, Derek?”

“Do you think you’re funny?” he asks sharply, hands coming up to rest against the wall on either side of Stiles.

He blinks, trying to gather his bearings and ignore the negative space between the two of them. “That was…the general idea, yeah.”

“You’re not.”

“Says you.”

“Says _anybody with a brain_ ,” he sneers.

“I wasn’t aware you had a brain,” Stiles mutters, grinning widely when Derek scowls at him. “Besides,” he goes on haughtily (it’s so much easier to overlook the fact that Derek’s half-naked body is touching him when he’s focusing on how much of an asshole he is), “I don’t know why you’re so upset. I think I look just like you.”

Derek scoffs. “I don’t wear boxer-briefs with _smiling rain clouds_ on them.”   

“How was I supposed to know that?”

Derek sways closer, a dark smirk upon his lips. “If you want to see my underwear,” he drawls, “all you have to do is ask.”

A breath punches out of Stiles. “Really?”

“No,” he snaps shoving off the wall and striding across the room to his dresser. Stiles almost passes out when he gets a glimpse of the _fucking tattoo_ on his back but before he can really process the fact that Derek just got 24 times hotter, Derek is yanking a new t-shirt on and turning around to glare at him.

“That was a dick move,” Stiles says weakly, sagging back against the wall.

Derek’s eyes flick down to his slightly tented underwear and Stiles feels his face flush a horrible, ugly red when he smirks. “That’s a good way of putting it.”

“Alright, _asshole_ , you don’t have to make fun of me.”

“Why not?” Derek asks, mouth thinning. “You’re making fun of me.”

“Wha—I’m not—it’s not the same thing—!”

“Yes, it is,” he spits out, stalking stiffly back over to him. “But if you don’t think so, then consider it payback for stealing my grandmother’s cookie recipe and then _lying_ about it.”

Stiles throws a hand up, knocking his head back. “Are you fucking kidding me?!”

“Do I look like I’m kidding?”

“No, you look a little constipated actually—“

Derek surges forward, pinning Stiles back to the wall with one broad hand on his chest. “I swear to God, Stiles—“ he rumbles and this is not fair, this is not fair at all. “Tell me who you got the recipe from. Was it Isaac?”

“No—“

“Who was it?”

“Fuck you! You think I’m going to tell you just so you can go harass them? _It wasn’t your recipe_. Get the hell off of me.”

Derek snorts. “You sure that’s what you want?” he asks, even as he’s stepping back and Stiles feels his cheeks darken up again in record time.

“It’s a natural biological response,” Stiles hisses at him. “It has nothing to do with you.”

Derek scoffs dryly. “Oh, really? Is that why you’ve been undressing me with your eyes since the moment we met?”

Stiles gapes at him. “Uh—wha—I— _Fine_ , Jesus, maybe it has something to do with you. But it’s not like it _means_ anything. You’re a hot weatherman; it’s your _job_ to turn people on."

There's a moment of thick silence in which Stiles gets the distinct impression he's over-stepped some invisible line.

“I’m a meteorologist,” Derek finally says, nostrils flaring—and just like that, the banter they had going dissipates. Derek looks _pissed_ and his hands are clenching into fists by his sides. “Stop pretending like you know _anything_ about me.” 

Stiles wants to shove his tongue into his mouth so hard that it _hurts_ , but Derek is already clenching his jaw and pushing him out the door, shutting it in his face with a loud _bang_ before he can think of anything else to say.

“Screw you too!” he calls through the door.

He can almost hear Derek flipping him off through the wood.

***

Erica finds him moping by the snack table, eating Chex Mix by the handful.

“Hey. What’s wrong with you?” she asks bluntly, hip-checking him lightly.

“Nothing.”

“Liar.”

He rolls his eyes. “Is Scott still alive?”

“Who?” she makes a face. “Oh. The lame-o who kissed me. Yeah, he’s alright. Although I think he’s going to be doing _a_ _lot_ of apologizing tonight.”

“Gross.”

She’s quiet for a moment.

“Does this have something to do with Derek?” she asks, grabbing a jack-o-lantern cookie from a plate. “I saw you disappear with him earlier.”

“Whatever you think happened didn’t happen,” he says, trying not to think about how his mood has _everything_ to do with Derek even though it shouldn’t because Stiles came to this party with the sole intention of pissing him off. He should be ecstatic or smug that he did it, not unsettled and sick to his stomach (although that might have something to do with the sheer amount of food he’s eaten in the past hour). “Wait,” he says belatedly. “You know Derek too?”

She shrugs. “Well, I’m friends with Laura, so…”

Stiles blinks. “Does _Laura_ know Derek?

“What, you don’t know?” Her eyes widen. “Oh my God, you _don’t_ know.”

“Know what?” he asks irritably.

“Hey, babe,” a big, hulking guy appears out of nowhere and puts an arm around Erica. “You ready to go?”

“Yeah, yeah—uh, this is Stiles. Stiles, this is my boyfriend, Boyd. He works with Derek at the news station.”

“My apologies,” Stiles says dryly.

Boyd grins.

“Alright, I’ll see you some other time,” Erica says, sending him a wink. “And don’t worry about Derek; I’ll fix it.”

“Wait—what? There’s nothing to fix! _Erica_!”

 “I don’t know you that well,” she calls back over her shoulder, “so I don’t feel bad doing this.”

“Doing _what?"_

“I’m going to talk to Laura! It’s going to be great!”

She’s gone before he can say anything else and he groans, stuffing another handful of Chex Mix into his mouth.

Worst. Halloween. _Ever_. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Apologize to Derek?
> 
> As if.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovely people! This chapter gave me so much grief, but I am happy with the outcome. I hope you guys enjoy this! This first scene of this chapter is when Stiles and co. are still at Derek's party (just in case anyone is confused). 
> 
> I'm giantteenwolforgy on tumblr as well! :) xo

***

Stiles is well on his way to miserably eating himself into a food coma (he should have _never_ agreed to be the designated driver) but thankfully Scott intervenes before it can get too out of hand.

“Hey dude,” he says happily, stumbling slightly as he moves to grip Stiles’s arm.

“Hey. I guess everything went okay with Allison then?” he asks, helping to steady him slightly as he thrusts a water bottle into his hand. “Here buddy; drink this.”

“Yeah!” Scott exclaims, obediently taking a big gulp. Stiles bitterly wishes that _he_ had a significant other he could argue with and make up with and have hot sex with and then breakfast in bed with— “Hey,” Scott says suddenly, pausing with the bottle halfway to his mouth. “Are you okay?”

“Oh yeah, just. I’m.” He sighs and scrubs a hand through his hair. “I was kind of a dick to Derek. He got mad at me.” He shrugs and shoves another handful of Chex Mix in his mouth.

Scott scoffs. “He’s always mad at you.”

“Yeah, but this time I deserved it.”

Scott waves easily. “Okay, so apologize.”

Stiles stares at him. “Scott, it’s _Derek_. I’m not even—like, yeah, I feel bad; but he’s been a dick to me almost every single time we’ve ever interacted. And _he’s_ never apologized.”

“Maybe you should just apologize to each other then,” Scott says, like it’s not something that would probably make the universe implode if it actually ended up happening.

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Is that how you and Allison stay sickeningly happy with each other? You just apologize?”

Scott positively preens at the comment. “I didn’t even have to apologize tonight.”

“You didn’t apologize for kissing another girl?”

He laughs loudly. “Shut up. She knows it was an _accident._ She said it was completely and _totally_ fine and that anyone could make a mistake like that.”

“She—Dude.” Stiles eyes widen. “She said that? She said it was ‘fine’?”

“Yeah. Isn’t that awesome?”

“No! No, Scott, that’s—that’s not awesome. Oh my God—okay, here,” he hastily tries to fix the parts of Scott’s hair that have become de-gelled and messy, snapping his fingers in front of his face to try and get the goofy grin to disappear.

“Stiles, what?” he asks. “Chill out.”

“You need to go grovel for forgiveness right now,” Stiles instructs him, squeezing his shoulder.

“But it was an accident. Allison said it was—“

“Scott, come on, she said it was _fine_. That’s like universal girl code for _the fucking farthest from fine a thing could be_ , how do you not _know_ this?”

“But—“

“Trust me, just go. Tell her you love her or whatever—“

“I _do_ love her,” Scott interrupts vehemently.

“Right, so tell her that—“

He juts out his chin. “Only if you do it to Derek.”

“What,” Stiles stares dumbly at him. “What the—I am _not_ telling Derek I love him. I don’t even like him—“

And yeah, the last part may be a teensy bit of a lie, but the point still stands. Love is what his mom and dad had, not whatever the hell is going on between himself and a grumpy weatherman (who has still not come out of his room).

(Not that Stiles is paying attention to that or anything.)

Scott is rolling his eyes next to him. “I meant _apologize_ to him, Stiles, jeez.”

“Oh.” Stiles thinks about it for a minute. “No, still not happening.”

“Then I’m not apologizing to Allison.”

“ _Scott_ —“ Stiles grimaces and scans the crowd, wincing when he spots Allison talking to Lydia in a corner. Lydia tosses a dark look over at Scott and yeah, this is bad, but Scott gets so stubborn about stupid shit like this that—“Fine. Fine, I’ll do it. But I’ll have you know that I’m only agreeing to this because I don’t want to deal with the constant moping that a fight with Allison always causes.

“Cool!” Scott says, and then he’s weaving away through the crowd again, like he hasn’t just strong-armed Stiles into agreeing to something that’s equal parts impossible and humiliating.

He tells himself that he’ll do it the second Derek comes out of his bedroom (quick and painless, like a band-aid) and then spends the rest of the night fervently cursing his best friend’s good heart.

***

Derek never comes out of his room.

Stiles is torn between feeling guilty and relieved.

“Dude, what did you even say to him?” Danny asks when he hears the story and Stiles shrugs his shoulders even though he’s pretty sure Derek took issue with the fact that he called him a _hot weatherman_.

The thing is, he has no idea _why_ that’s such a sore spot for him, and while that doesn’t really make him any less of an asshole, Stiles is pretty grateful that he didn’t have to awkwardly stumble through a vague apology.

The whole idea is pretty laughable anyways.

Apologize to Derek?

_As if._

“He probably just got a good look at your face,” Jackson says unsympathetically. Scott punches him in the arm.

***

“Stiles,” Laura calls after class is over on Monday, and suddenly all Stiles can see is Erica laughing, brown eyes glinting in low light, calling _I’m going to talk to Laura!_. Fuck, how could he have _forgotten_ about that? “Can I see you for a moment?”

He contemplates making a run for it, but Laura glares at him like she knows what he’s thinking, so he groans and trudges up to her desk. She’s acting really weird, smirking and ignoring him in favor of organizing the papers on her desk and Stiles is getting increasingly twitchy the longer she makes him wait. It’s only when the last student filters out of the classroom that she looks up at him.

“Look whatever Erica told you is a complete lie—“ he blurts out, at the same time Laura says: “I wanted to talk to you about your term paper.”

He falters, heart pounding in his chest. “Wha—my paper?”

“Yeah.” Her eyebrow quirks. “What’s this about Erica?”

“Nothing,” he says quickly, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “What? Nope. Let’s talk about the—the term paper. Yeah.”

“Huh.” She sucks on her cheek for a second before turning away again. “Alright, well I just wanted to go over a few options with you. I left my bestiary at home, but my brother’s supposed to bring it by any minute, so we can look through that if you want.”

“Oh.” Stiles relaxes even more, sinking down into a desk. “Yeah, that’s great. Thanks. That’s nice of your brother.”

Laura hums, smirk coming back full force, and Stiles suddenly feels nervous—an uncomfortable itching starting beneath his skin.

He narrows his eyes. “Uhm—“

But then someone’s pushing through the door and a very horribly familiar voice is saying, “Hey Laura, I brought two books because I wasn’t sure which one was—“

And Stiles is not going to look; he’s absolutely not going to look at whoever just came in because he’s 95% sure that person is Derek.

“What is _he_ doing here?”

Fuck, make that 100% sure.

“So,” Stiles says weakly, eyeing the wide smirk that’s still gracing Laura’s face. “I guess Erica _did_ talk to you.”

“What?” Derek demands gruffly and Stiles’s stomach drops to his feet because this means Derek is Laura’s _brother_. Son of a _bitch_. “Laura, what is he talking about? Did you fucking plan this?”

Stiles’s gaze shifts to Derek without his permission and his lungs kind of seize up in his chest. It’s fucking pathetic is what it is because it’s only been three days since he saw him last, and his heart is stuttering like it’s been months or something. And the thing is, it shouldn’t even matter if it had been months because he hardly knows him—Jesus, he barely even likes the guy on a normal day, and now he’s showing up with leather bound books in an old ratty jacket and a backwards baseball cap on his head and it’s not hot, it’s not (except it is and apparently Stiles likes the douchey frat boy look now). 

Derek glares at him and Stiles rips his eyes away to stare at Laura instead, his cheeks hot.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Derek,” she sing-songs.

“What about you?” he says flatly. “Did you know?” It takes a second for Stiles to register that he’s talking to him.

“M—Me? Wha—why would I set this up?”

“Why do you do anything?”

Stiles rolls his eyes with feeling. “Believe me dude. I had no idea you were even remotely related to my TA.”

Derek doesn’t respond to him, merely turns his glare back on Laura, which in itself is kind of worrisome because Derek has always tried to get the last sharp-tongued word in during one of their arguments.

Stiles shifts slightly and wonders if this has something to do with what happened at the Halloween Party.

“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me that you knew Stiles!” Laura is exclaiming.

Derek scowls and throws the leather-bound books on her desk. “I don’t know him,” he says shortly. “And he doesn’t know me either.”

And, alright, so yeah, this is definitely about what happened on Halloween.

He can hear Scott’s voice yelling about apologies in his head and he’s not a _total_ dickhead, so yeah, maybe he will just say sorry, except now is clearly not the right time because Derek looks like he’d be glad to murder someone and Laura is still talking.

Maybe he’ll do it later.

Much, much later.

“Well, you’ll get to know him tonight.”

“What,” Derek says while Stiles chokes on his own spit.

“You have to cover for Erica at the baked goods booth tonight! Remember, I asked you this morning?”

“You didn’t tell me I’d be working with _him_ ,” Derek says darkly and Laura’s smirk falters slightly.

“Whoa, dude, chill out,” Stiles says, and he’s trying to be reassuring, trying not to be the total fuckwit Derek obviously thinks he is, but it doesn’t work.

“I have to go,” he says loudly before striding out of the classroom.

The door slams behind him and Laura rolls her eyes. “He’s such a drama queen.”

***

Stiles wants to die.

He wants to just curl up and die.

(He settles for a coffee.)

The only problem is that when he walks in, the first person he sees is Derek.

Sitting on _his_ stool.

“Are you kidding me?” he mutters, packing all of his despair into those four words.

He’s seriously considering turning around and walking out again (if only to preserve some of his last vestiges of dignity), but before he can Cora shoots him a smile and a wave.

“Hey, Stiles!” she all but yells across the room.

Derek stiffens in his seat and swings around, eyes burning as Stiles gives a nervous wave and stumbles forward to the counter.

“What do you want today?” Cora asks.

Stiles shrugs, too aware of Derek’s glare on the side of his face. He probably should've left the shop anyways. “Surprise me.”

“Sure thing.”

“What the hell are you doing here?” Derek asks, when Cora has moved away and to one of the machines. It’s a real accomplishment that he manages to look so menacing while holding a drink marked as a peppermint mocha. “Did you _follow_ me here?”

“ _What?_ ” Stiles blanches. “No! What the—I come here all the time. You’re sitting in _my_ chair, dickwad!”

“You have a _chair_?” he asks dubiously.

“Yeah,” Stiles says, over-exaggerated and mocking. He’s probably going to get beat the hell up, but that almost seems like a better alternative at this point. Arguing with Derek isn’t as fun as it used to be. “A chair. It’s that wooden thing you’re sitting on.”

“This is a _stool_ ,” Derek shoots back imperiously, and Stiles’s nostrils flare. “But what do I know right? I’m just a hot weatherman.”

The words are like a slap to the face and it only serves to make Stiles angrier, which is stupid. He’s so _stupid_ , but he can’t help it.

“Come on, you know I didn’t mean it that way—“

“How was I supposed to know anything about what you meant—“

“Alright, well I’m telling you now!” Derek glares at him and Stiles swallows hard, tries to keep his voice low so they don’t attract an audience or get kicked out or something. Cora would definitely kick them out. “I didn’t mean it in like a _malicious_ way, I just say stuff sometimes and—“

“Whatever.”

“You haven’t exactly been the nicest puppy in the dog park either, asshole,” Stiles shoots back, back rigid. “So how about you think about that for a second before you jump down _my_ throat.” 

Derek isn’t looking at him anymore, is staring down at his coffee cup like he’ll be able to heat it up with the intensity of his gaze alone. Who knows, maybe he can. He looks up a minute later, jaw muscle clenching and unclenching in the rhythm to the song playing over the store speakers. He looks frustrated. “What are you even _doing_ here?”

“I’m getting a coffee. Jeez, you don’t hold a monopoly on coffee shops. I didn’t hear you call dibs, buddy.”

“My sister works here. I automatically get first dibs, _buddy_.”

“Oh my—are you seriously calling dibs on a coffee shop?” Stiles rolls his eyes. “And I’ve never even seen Laura here a day in my life—”

“Not Laura,” he grits out, looking like it’s physically painful for him to talk to Stiles. “I have more than one sister, genius.”

“Why are you losers talking about me?” Cora asks, sliding an Americano across the bar for Stiles. It’s already in a to-go cup _thank God_ because Stiles is ready to haul ass out of here and go cry on Scott’s shoulder or something.

He takes it gratefully. “We’re not; we’re talking about his sister.”

“That _is_ my sister, you idiot.”

 And. 

What.

“Cora?” Stiles squeaks. He feels like the center of his world is shifting or the ground is falling out from under his feet or something. He looks back and forth between them. “You have got to be fucking with me. Cora is your sister _too_?”

“You _are_ an idiot,” Cora snorts. 

“That—but—“ fuck, he’s been talking to Cora about _her brother_?? “Holy shit.” He looks at Derek in horror. “Holy fuck, dude, those _were_ your grandmother’s cookies.”

Derek looks at him sharply. “ _What?_ ”

“They were—damn it, you were fucking right. I got the recipe from Cora; that means it was your grandmother’s recipe right?”

His face contorts into a scowl that’s both angry and smug and the “I’m sorry” gets stuck in Stiles’s throat because now he kind of wants to punch him in the face.

Or punch himself in the face.

God, he _is_ an idiot.

“What,” Cora says suddenly, a strange look upon her face. Her eyes flick between Stiles and Derek and he gets a horrible sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. “Those cookies were for Derek? But I thought—“

“ _Whoa_!” Stiles says, waving a hand so desperately he almost sloshes his coffee all over himself. “Uh. Let’s just _stop talking_ for a second, huh? Doesn’t that sound like a great idea?”

“Stiles!” she exclaims loudly. “I cannot believe that _Derek_ is the one y—“

“Please, Cora, oh my God; if you love me at all you will not finish that sentence!”

He can feel Derek’s stupid fucking self-satisfied gaze on his cheek and it’s making his whole face flush a deep ruddy color. She eyes him sharply for a moment before bursting out with a loud laugh.

Stiles wishes it was possible to melt through the floor.

Derek’s still watching him when he throws some money on the counter and runs away.

***

“Scott, this is literally the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.”

“Did you say you were sorry?” his voice is tinny through the phone speakers, but no less earnest.

“Not everything can be fixed with a hug and an apology,” Stiles sighs, letting his head fall back against the edge of the couch. “Where are you anyways? I need your help.”

“I’m at Allison’s. She’s still pretty upset with me, so thanks for whatever you said to me at the party. I don’t really remember it, but I know it minimized the damage.”

“No prob,” Stiles says easily, letting out a heavy sigh. “I just wish I knew how to minimize my own damage.”

“Dude, just apologize!”

“I did!” he groans. “Kind of. I guess. The words ‘I’m sorry,’ were implied, okay?”

“I really think you guys just got off on the wrong foot,” Scott says quietly. “I asked Isaac, and he says that Derek isn’t that bad.”

“Whatever, it’s hopeless anyways.”

“Stiles, it’s _not_.”

“It will be when Cora,  _his sister,_ tells him how much of a lame crush I had on him. God, it’s going to be so awkward at the stupid baked goods booth tonight—did I tell you Laura, _also his sister,_ forced him to help me? I wish I could get away with not going, but she’d probably castrate me. Fuck, this is the worst.” Scott is quiet for a moment and Stiles hears someone unlocking the door of the apartment. He sighs loudly. “I’ll let you go dude. Talk to you later.”

“Yeah,” Scott says. “Good luck, man.”

“Thanks.”

Jackson comes into the room just as Stiles throws his phone away from him and covers his face with a despondent arm.

“What’s wrong with _you_?” Jackson asks, letting his backpack fall to the floor with a thump. Stiles can _hear_ his nose wrinkling.

“My life is falling apart,” he moans.

Jackson scoffs and leaves the room.

(Ten minutes later, he’s back and huffing in irritation.)

“I’m ordering Chinese, do you want any?”

Stiles peeks around his arm to catch a glimpse of his sour face. “You hate Chinese food.”

Jackson sneers at him. “Do you want it or not, Stilinski?”

“Yes, come on! Chinese is my favorite!”

“I know,” Jackson sighs, rolling his eyes.

***

Derek is already at the baked goods booth when Stiles arrives. He’s so busy arranging the treats on the table that he doesn’t even notice Stiles until he clears his throat.

When he looks up, he’s scowling.

Stiles sighs in defeat. “Okay, seriously? How could you already be mad at me? I haven’t even said anything!” His face flushes red. “Unless this is about what Cora told you?”

Derek scowls harder. “Cora won’t tell me anything.”

Stiles freezes, one hand on his chin, wondering if maybe his life isn’t completely horrible after all. “For real?”

Derek nods once, jerky and annoyed.

“Holy shit,” he sighs, sagging into a chair. “I thought for sure she’d spill her guts just to torture me.”

“My sisters might like torturing you, but they _love_ torturing me more.”

Stiles’s grin falters as the meaning of his words sink in. “Which is why Laura asked you to come here tonight. To torture you.”

Derek glances over at him. “It would appear so.”

“Right,” Stiles says and he doesn’t say another word for the next ten minutes.

Derek doesn’t make any moves to break the silence either, though his shoulders are tense with—what? With annoyance probably.

He's always annoyed.

It's fucking awkward is what it is, but they both sit stiff and silent until a mother and daughter walk up. Then Derek stands and smiles—really smiles; it’s fucking weird because Stiles can actually see the transition when he goes from Regular Derek to Weatherman Derek.

“Hi,” he says pleasantly, and the mother who had been looking so frazzled a moment ago positively _melts_.

Stiles bites the inside of his cheek to prevent him from doing anything stupid, like melting along with her.

“How can I help you?”

“I’m a vee-gand,” the little girl proclaims.

“Annie, honey, really,” the mother sighs.

“A vegan?” Derek asks Annie, and she nods, blonde curls bouncing.

“I’m sorry,” her mom sighs. “She read a book or something, I—Annie, these people probably don’t have anything vegans eat. This stuff is made with milk and eggs, remember?” She looks helplessly back up at Derek.

“We actually do have one thing…” Derek purses his lips, eyes roving over the table. “Is she allergic to nuts?”

Annie shakes her head and a small, _genuine_ grin twitches on Derek’s lips as he picks up a bag.

And then, as if his stupid customer service skills weren’t horrible enough, he goes around the table and kneels down in front of Annie. “This is a mix of nuts, granola, and some dried fruit,” he tells her seriously. “It’s very healthy, but it’s also very good, okay? I think you’ll like it.”

“Thank you,” she says, carefully taking the baggie from him.

Stiles wants to suffocate himself with the cellophane wrapping on the brownies because the whole thing is just too goddamn adorable.

“Thank you,” her mother echoes, handing over a five dollar bill. “You can keep the change.”

Derek smiles again and it’s just _not fair_. This is Derek the weatherman. The hot, smiling, charismatic TV personality that Stiles fell for is literally two feet away, helping small children and smiling at _everyone but Stiles_.

Sure enough, when Derek straightens up and sees Stiles gaping, his mouth contorts into a grimace. “What?” he asks uncomfortably.

And Stiles doesn't know what; he doesn't know what he wants or what he wants to say, but he knows he hates this whole 'push until it hurts' argument thing they have going on.

“Scott thinks we got off on the wrong foot,” he blurts out. 

Derek blinks.

“He thinks we should just, like start over with each other. Clean slate and all that?” Stiles can feel himself flushing again, mostly because Derek is still just staring at him, looking confused and a little constipated.

"I thought we were fighting," he finally says. 

"Well, now we're not."

Derek just blinks again. 

“Here,” Stiles says wildly, grabbing a few rice krispie treats and thrusting them in Derek’s general direction. “Peace offering. I can guarantee that these are not in any way affiliated with your grandmother.”

Derek raises his eyebrows in his patented disdainful manner and clears his throat. “Actually. Cora supplies those, so…”

Stiles groans and flops back in his chair. “Of course she does. Nevermind.”

Derek doesn't say anything else, but when he comes back around to the other side of the table, there’s a grin pulling at the corner of his mouth.

Stiles guesses that probably means Derek's not being  _completely_ tortured by helping out.

It's something, at least.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek answers the door barefoot, a soft looking t-shirt stretched over his biceps and his hair sticking up at all angles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HERE WE GOOOOOO (finally) aghhh. I am SO SORRY this took so long, I hope no one gave up on the story! This past month has been crazy, I was an Assistant Stage Manager for a show at my school and I was literally at rehearsal allll the time. But now it's over, so hopefully I can get things written much quicker! :) Hope you enjoy!

***

Stiles has no idea why he’s back at the coffee shop.

Actually, that’s a lie.

He knows exactly why he’s back and it has everything to do with the fact that Cora obeyed the bro-code and didn’t tell Derek anything about Stiles’s horribly embarrassing weather-induced boner-crush-thing and he figures he should probably repay the favor with continued support and tips. 

Also he was up all night studying for his Criminology exam and if he doesn’t get some caffeine into his system soon he’s going to die.

So here he is; back at the coffee shop and anxiously keeping one eye open for anybody that looks even remotely like a taller, hotter, broader, _decidedly un-female_ version of his favorite barista. 

“I can’t,” she’s saying into her cellphone as he comes up to the counter. “No—I physically _can’t_.”

“ _Cora_ ,” he whispers loudly and she holds up a hand. “Sorry—just—do you have an ETA on the end of this phone call? I kind of need a cup of coff—“ he cuts himself off when she pointedly rolls her eyes and walks away. “Oh. Okay. No, that’s fine. I’ll just wait here.”

“Forget it,” she says, voice carrying over to him despite the buzz of chatter in the shop. “There has to be someone else you can call.”

“Unless this is going to take a long time?” he leans over the bar to get her attention. “Hey, should I just go to the other coffee place?”

“Because I am working a double shift today!”

“Cora—?”

“Stiles, shut _up_!” She snaps, spinning around to glare at him.

He falls back into his seat, apology already on his lips, but then she stops short, eyes wide in realization and she grins—a feral, _sinister-looking_ grin.  “Stiles will help you,” she says.

He frowns. “Stiles will not—“

“Here, talk to him,” she demands, thrusting her phone under Stiles’s nose so insistently that he takes it.

“Uh. Hey. What can I do ya for?” he asks warily. Cora muffles a snicker into her apron.

There’s a long moment of silence, so much so that Stiles is seriously considering hanging up, but then a gruff, uncomfortable, “Put Cora back on the phone,” makes his heart stutter.

“ _Derek?_ ”

“Put _Cora_ back on.”

Stiles practically throws the phone back at her in his haste to rid himself of it. “What the fuck?” he hisses at her, but Cora just laughs and raises an eyebrow as she says: “He’ll be over soon.”

“What!” he squeaks, trying valiantly to steal the phone back. “No I won’t!” he shouts, but Cora is already ending the call and stuffing the phone in her pocket.

“I hate you,” Stiles tells her, lips thin.

“He needs _help_.”

 “So? You can’t just pimp me out like that!”

“Jesus, Stiles; he’s my brother. I’m not _pimping you out_.” Stiles huffs and plops back down on his stool, shoving one of his hoodie strings into his mouth to chew on. “He needs help baking for the festival tonight. He’s a disaster in the kitchen. It’s really pathetic.”

“Yeah? Well it’ll be even _more_ pathetic if I show up. I’m not doing it.”

“Come on, please! Isaac is in a lab until 4 o’clock and Laura’s even more incompetent than Derek. I’m too busy working to help. You’re his only hope.”

Stiles groans and lets his head fall on the counter. “ _Cora…"_

“Do you _want_ the innocent festival-goers to ingest glorified cardboard? Do you want them to get food poisoning _and die_?”

“Do you want _me_ to die?”

“Derek is not going to kill you."

“And to think,” he grumbles, glowering at her. “I came here to thank you for not saying anything about my— _you know_ —“

“About your horrific crush on my brother?”

“ _Cora_! It’s not a _crush_!”

“Do you think we should get Derek’s opinion on that?”

He gapes at her. “Is this blackmail? Are you blackmailing me?” Cora shrugs. “No, you know what? I don’t care. It’s going to be way too awkward if I go over there now.  Last time I saw him we ended on some kind of weird half-truce thing and I’m pretty sure he still hates me. Plus I am running on like 30 minutes of sleep—”

“You’re going.

“I’m—not.”

***

Derek answers the door barefoot, a soft looking t-shirt stretched over his biceps and his hair sticking up at all angles.

“Heeeey, Derek,” Stiles says, almost swallowing his tongue at the image he presents. “Funny seeing you here.”

“I live here.”

“Oh. Right.”

Derek sighs and tilts his head. “Cora sent you.

It’s not a question but Stiles nods anyways. “Apparently you’re a terrible baker.”

“I am not,” he says immediately, eyebrows furrowing. “I don’t need your help.”

He moves to shut the door, but Stiles is pretty sure that Cora is going to cause him bodily harm if he doesn’t bake at least _a batch_ of cookies, so he darts forward and shoves his foot in the door jamb.

Which.

Well, it’s a really fucking stupid idea actually because Derek doesn’t see him do it and the door bounces off of his foot so hard he think he might have actually heard his bone crack.

“ _Fuck_ —holy fucking _shitfuck_ —“

“ _Stiles_!” Derek shouts. “What the hell?”

“You fucking—“

“Why did you—“

“This is _your_ fault!” Stiles gasps out, attempting to hop in place and almost falling over. Derek’s arm shoots out to steady him. “God _damn_ it!”

“You’re the one who shoved your foot in my way!” he growls, hand tightening around his arm.

“You’re the one who fucking broke it!”

Derek hesitates slightly. “It’s not broken.”

“You don’t know that!”

He sighs laboriously. “I didn’t shut the door hard enough to _break your foot_. You’re wearing sneakers!”

Stiles sways slightly, his foot giving a particularly painful throb. “Think you’re underestimating your strength there, big guy.”

“You’re such an idiot,” Derek sighs under his breath, tugging him roughly inside and kicking the door shut behind him.

“Fuck you too.” Stiles mutters weakly, trying and failing to ignore the way his foot feels like it’s on fire.

Derek just sighs again and half-carries him to the bathroom, hand warm and large on his ribs. “Take off your shoe,” he says as he levers Stiles down onto the edge of the tub and kneels down in front of him.

“Why can’t _you_ take it off?” Stiles complains, voice dissipating into a whine at the end of his sentence. 

Derek huffs a breath out through his nose. “Maybe I don’t want to hurt you,” he grits out, glaring up at Stiles.

Stiles thinks he should have thought about that _before_ this happened, but he bites his tongue and maneuvers his shoe off, trying not to think about how gentle Derek’s fingers feel when they wrap around his ankle.

***

His foot is not broken.

It _is_ pretty badly bruised though and Stiles demands an ice pack, an ACE bandage, and some aspirin. Derek obliges with surprising ease.

***

“God, this is a disaster area,” Stiles says, when he limps into the kitchen.

“I’ve been cooking,” Derek says defensively, hovering behind him, and Stiles doesn’t even have to look at him to know he’s scowling.

“Yeah. I can see that,” Stiles says slowly, eyes roving over the scene in front of him.

There’s a tray of burned cupcakes half-submerged in the sink and dirty measuring cups and bowls strewn out all over the counters—not to mention the sticky remnants of what looks like an unfortunate accident with some eggs on the floor. There’s also a fine white powder settled over most of the dishes and half of the floor.

“What—did the flour explode?”

Derek pushes past him with a dark look. “No. It’s just messy.”

“Are you sure you used it the right way?”

Derek frowns and yanks a paper towel off of the roll, fruitlessly trying to clean up, but really only succeeding in spreading the mess around more. “Is there a _wrong_ way to use flour?”

“Whatever you did,” Stiles says, leaning against the counter tiredly. “Whatever you did was definitely wrong.”

Derek huffs and crumples up the paper towel in defeat. He manages to clip Stiles on the shoulder when he goes to throw it away, knocking him off balance and forcing him to slam his hand down on the counter—in something that feels suspiciously like a puddle of warm milk—to prevent himself from putting too much weight on his bad foot.

“ _Ugh_ —gross!”

“Oops,” Derek says, but he’s wearing a little smirk that makes Stiles think he did that completely on purpose.

He narrows his eyes. “If I’m helping you, you have to be nice to me.”

Derek’s eyes widen in mock-amazement. “I do? I had no idea that being nice was the _whole_ _point_ of a _truce_."

“What,” Stiles gapes at him. “We’re in a truce?”

He sighs, face going pinched. “Stiles, you’re the one who wanted a truce.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, were you _enjoying_ the constant animosity between us?”

“That’s not the—“

“It’s okay if you did,” Stiles says blithely. “Some people get off on it.”

“What—I don’t—“ he huffs and scrubs a hand through his hair. “I thought... Do you not want to be in a truce?”

Stiles groans. “Dude, no, it’s _fine_. I just didn’t know we were in one.”

“It was _your_ idea, how could you not know?”

“Yeah, well,” he makes a face and flicks his hand at Derek, spraying him with some milk droplets. He glares at Stiles so hard there’s a distinct possibility he might strain something. “Don’t give me that look! You didn’t take the Rice Krispie! How was I supposed to know you accepted my offer? What—and you have not been acting very truce-like, dude. You _slammed_ my foot in the door.”

“That. Was an accident,” Derek grits out.

“Fine, whatever.” Stiles sighs and shakes his head, trying to stop the corners of his mouth from turning up. Derek’s social ineptitude is not cute, it’s _not_. “Let’s just make some baked goods, huh?”

***

“What are you doing?”

“I’m reading the recipe,” Stiles sighs out, tossing an annoyed look over his shoulder at Derek. “Chill out, douchenozzle.”

“But that recipe doesn’t work,” Derek insists for like the eighth time in two minutes.

“That’s because you don’t know how to cook.”

“I know how to cook,” he argues immediately.

“Exhibit A,” Stiles says dryly, pointing at the tray full of hopelessly burned cupcakes still soaking in the sink. “And—dude, God—stop breathing on my neck!”

“You’re not acting very truce-like,” Derek parrots at him, but takes a miniscule step back, so he’s not practically pressed up against Stiles’s back anyways. Stiles rolls his eyes.

“Do you we need to make anything else besides these cupcakes?” he asks tightly.

“Cookies, if we have time. Maybe some brownies.” After a moment: “Or a pie.”

“Are you—That’s a lot of baking.” Stiles sighs and throws his elbow out so Derek will back the hell up and stop distracting him with his breathing and nice smelling laundry detergent or whatever. “Okay. So. Why don’t you start assembling ingredients. Do you think you can handle that without making more of a mess?”

Derek scoffs at him and stalks over to the fridge, yanking out a carton of eggs—which immediately falls open and sends three eggs careening to the tile floor with sickening cracks.

Derek scrambles to close the box before anymore eggs can get ruined, sending a furtive look Stiles’s way, like he’s checking to see if he _noticed_ or something. Stiles can’t help it; he bursts out laughing.

“Dude, how are you _so bad_ at this?” he asks as the tips of Derek’s ears turn pink.

“I’m a meteorologist, not a chef,” he grumbles, and then promptly slips in the egg yolks.

***

“Stop—dude!”

“ _Stiles!_ ”

“Just wait a second, will you?”

“I hate cooking,” Derek spits out furiously.

“Okay, you can add the flour _after_ the machine starts mixing,” he says, setting the recipe carefully aside again.

“I knew that already.”

“Forgive me for double-checking—“

“Will you hurry up?”

“ _Fine_ ,” Stiles says sharply, flicking the electric mixer on a few levels too high. The still-liquidy cookie batter sloshes around the bowl alarmingly, but before Stiles can lower the speed or get a word out, Derek is dumping the _entire_ fucking three cups of flour into the mix at once.

There is, predictably, a small explosion.

Flour shoots _everywhere_ (and by everywhere, Stiles means mostly on Derek). He starts coughing and spluttering, blindly pulling the mixer up and away from the bowl, _without turning the machine off,_ which just makes batter get everywhere too.

Stiles should probably help him out, but he happens to be wearing his third favorite t-shirt, so he chooses to hobble backwards as fast as he can instead, yelling at Derek to “Turn it the fuck off!” while Derek mostly just yells curse words at the top of his lungs.

Stiles has never met anyone who is as hopeless as Derek seems to be in the kitchen. 

He manages to unplug the machine after a few moments of desperate scrabbling, but the damage is already done. And Stiles has never claimed to be a good person, so he doesn’t feel any remorse when he digs his phone out of his pocket to document it.

“Do not,” Derek says when he catches sight of him. 

“Too late!” he says gleefully, admiring his handiwork. The picture is _gold_ ; Derek’s mouth is half open, eyes squinted shut, cookie batter dripping from his nose… He looks like an idiot.

It’s a masterpiece.

“I’m setting this picture as my background,” he tells Derek, just to see his nostrils flare in annoyance.

“Do _not_ ,” he says again.

But, well, it’s too late for that too.

***

The cookies never get made.

The last of the eggs were destroyed in the Mixer Mishap and both of them outright refuse to run to the store.

“I’m crippled now,” Stiles tells him, prompting a flat look from Derek. “Are you really going to make me run to the store when I can barely stand here?”

“Well _I’m_ not going,” Derek says, crossing his arms over his ruined shirt. “I’m a mess.”

“You could take a shower,” Stiles points out.

Derek starts bitching about how the mess is completely Stiles’s fault anyways (which is definitely not fucking true) and also how he takes _really_ long showers and they’d never have enough time to make the cookies if they were waiting on him to finish and then get to the store and back. The conversation really does nothing but make Stiles’s mind fill with unbidden images of Derek soaping up his very naked body in a steamy shower; turning his face up into the water spray, eyelashes dark smudges against his cheeks and mouth open slightly, hands moving all along his muscles and then maybe down further to wrap around his cock and squeeze—

“ _Fine_ ,” he interrupts. It’s the last night of the festival anyways, so Stiles figures they can get away with having fewer goods than usual. “Whatever. I don’t care; we finished the cupcakes, so I’ll just take those and get out of here.”

Derek hums slightly, eyeing Stiles with a dangerous glint in his eye. “Not exactly.”

“Not exactly? What is _that_ supposed to mean?”

“Delete that picture,” he says, “and you won’t have to find out.”

He lets out a surprised bark of laughter. “Are you threatening me?”

Derek shrugs and Stiles has to physically press his lips together stop the incredulous smile that threatens to break out. There’s no way in hell he’s deleting that picture and he _never_ goes down without a fight, so he reaches behind him and grabs the sink hose. “If you even _try_ to get near my phone, I’m going to show you exactly how long a shower can be.”

Derek’s mouth twitches. “Are _you_ threatening _me_?”

“Yes.”

He turns the water on, fingers twitching over the trigger of the hose.

Derek stares at him for a minute, eyes calculating and Stiles just barely sees the challenge in the flash of his teeth before he’s stalking forward and Stiles is brandishing the hose and sending a stream of water directly to Derek’s face.

“ _Stiles!_ ” he shouts, hands coming up to block the spray.

“I warned you!” he yells back, voice tapering off into a very unmanly screech when Derek lunges forward. “Fuck—fuck fuck, dude this isn’t fair; I can’t _run_!”

He manages to wiggle over to the side, stretching the hose as far as it can go. Derek’s hands graze his side as he stumbles into the sink.

“Maybe I should take a picture of _this_ ,” Stiles taunts, smirking as Derek wheels around and he soaks the front of his shirt with the stream of water.

Derek rolls his eyes and switches off the water, snorting as the water tapers off weakly and the smirk falls off of Stiles’s face.

“Rookie mistake,” he says smugly and Stiles is so _pissed_ because he’s right.

“Fuck you,” he says, throwing the hose at him and trying fruitlessly to get as far as way as possible on one foot.

He hasn’t even frantically hopped three feet when Derek wraps his hand around his wrist and tugs him around, grinning darkly.

“No no no _nonoo_ ,” Stiles groans breathlessly, trying desperately to twist around so Derek can’t get a good grip on his phone. “If you delete it I’ll hate you forever!”

“You already hate me,” he growls and shoves him into the wall, thigh slipping between his legs to pin him there. Stiles is pretty sure he’s never had such a sexually charged wrestling match in his entire life.

“I’ll hate you even _more_ ,” he declares, cupping his phone desperately to his chest with both hands. Derek moves to try and pry his hands apart, breathing heavily and Stiles bites down hard on his shoulder.

“ _Stiles_ , stop it!”

“You stop it!” he yells, writhing away from Derek’s questing hands as best as he can. Unfortunately this also puts his hips right up against Derek’s and he knows that even if Derek didn’t feel it before, he is now 100% aware of the boner to end all boners that Stiles is currently sporting.

Derek’s hands dig a little bit harder into him and Stiles just wants to die from embarrassment; his whole body feels like it’s overheating from the force of his blush alone and Derek is _still_ fucking going for his phone.

Stiles goes for broke and implements the move that always guarantees him a win when he’s wrestling with Scott—meaning he goes totally boneless and starts to sink to the floor.

“No, you—fucker,” Derek gasps out, and it sounds a lot like he’s laughing, which is so surprising that Stiles almost forgets that he’s horribly aroused.

Then he registers that Derek is _following him_ down to the floor, hand accidentally rucking up Stiles’s t-shirt and sliding along his skin in an effort to get to where Stiles has pinned his cellphone between his back and the tile floor; and he’s _smiling_ , breathless and still wet from the sink attack.

(His arousal comes back full force and Stiles blinks at him, mouth dropping open at how much he _wants_ in that moment.)

Derek meets his eyes for a split-second and then ducks down, rubbing his sopping hair against the skin of his neck and Stiles _keens_ ; arches up at the shock of cold and feels a very significant twitch against his stomach.

His breath hitches, a drop of precome spilling out of his own dick and soaking into his underwear because that twitch was Derek—that was Derek’s cock getting hard because of Stiles, and—

“Jesus Christ,” someone says from the entrance to the kitchen and they both freeze and look over to where Isaac is staring around the room in horror. “What the fuck happened to the kitchen?”

“It’s Derek’s fault,” Stiles says immediately.

Isaac’s eyes land on Stiles and Derek and his cheeks color. “Oh,” he says, belatedly slapping a hand over his eyes. “Uh. Sorry to interrupt.”

“What—“ Stiles chokes, struggling to get out from under Derek. Derek lets him go this time. “We weren’t—“

“Yeah, whatever, I _really_ don’t want to know,” Isaac groans. “Just. Clean up the fucking kitchen. God. I’m going to Scott’s.”

“But—“

“ _I’m going to Scott’s!_ ” he repeats, a little manically.

Stiles watches him go, slack-jawed, and then turns his gaze on Derek. “What,” he says weakly.

Derek doesn’t answer, his gaze fixed on Stiles’s jaw.

“What?” he asks again, shakier this time.

Derek shakes himself out of it, eyes meeting Stiles’s. He looks a lot younger, almost vulnerable in his expression, and they’re still so close to each other that Stiles doesn’t even have to try to flick his gaze down to Derek’s parted lips, it just _happens_.

The last thing he’s expecting is for Derek to immediately stand up and cross the kitchen to stand awkwardly by the sink, but that’s exactly what he does.

Stiles blinks from where he’s still sitting on the floor, confused and so sexually frustrated it isn’t even funny.

“You should go,” Derek says hoarsely.

“Oh. Uhm. Really? Okay.”

Stiles heaves himself up, scratching a hand through his hair. Derek turns around and starts washing dishes like he’s on autopilot.

He loiters around for a minute or two after he grabs the tub of cupcakes, but Derek doesn’t say anything else so Stiles heaves a frustrated sigh.

“ _You’re welcome_ ,” he says pointedly.

Derek stills, but doesn’t turn around.

***

“I'm fine,” Stiles tells Erica when she asks him what's wrong.

She doesn't look like she believes him.

“It's really nothing. I'm just exhausted."

"From baking?"

"It was a perilous afternoon," he mutters defensively. "I  _risked my life_ to make those cupcakes and no one’s even buying them.”

“You risked your life?” Erica repeats dubiously. “That's funny. Considering Derek wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

“ _That’s funny_. Considering he slammed my foot in the door."

Erica sighs loudly. "Like I said; Derek wouldn't hurt a fly _on purpose_."

"He doesn't seem to have a problem with hurting feelings on purpose," Stiles mutters sourly.

Erica looks over at him sharply, but he stares at the individually wrapped brownies and pretends not to see.

“I’m sure he didn’t mean to,” she starts slowly.

He waves his hand. “Whatever. It’s not like it matters anyway.”

Stiles lives in a constant state of denial, okay? It’s a coping mechanism.

“You’re pathetic,” Erica tells him. “Let me put my number in your phone.”

He frowns. “Why?”

“So we can hang out some more,” she says, snapping her fingers. “ _Come on_.”

Stiles isn’t entirely sure he _wants_ to hang out with Erica more, but he isn’t about to say that to her face.

“Yeah, whatever,” he says, digging it out of his pocket and tossing it over to her. “Password’s 5103.”

A delighted laugh bursts out of her the moment she keys in his password and Stiles squints over at her suspiciously. She arches an eyebrow in response, wide grin still playing on her face.

“What?” he asks uncomfortably.

She turns his phone around to show him what she’s looking at and he flushes, making a half-hearted grab to steal his phone back. 

“A picture of Derek as your background?” she asks sweetly. “How cute.”

“Shut up, it’s not—“

“I thought you hated him,” she hums.

“I do. That’s blackmail material.”

“Uh-huh,” she says flatly. “And I thought _he_ hated _you_.”

“He _does_ ,” Stiles says, but at this point he doesn’t even know whether it’s a lie or not. “Don’t you see the way he’s glaring at me?”

Erica rolls her eyes. “You’re hopeless.”

For once, Stiles is inclined to agree.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Dude, I don’t even know what you’re talking about,” Stiles says. “Derek and I did not make out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GUYS.
> 
> HERE IT IS.
> 
> I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHAT TO SAY EXCEPT THANK YOU IF YOU ARE STILL READING. Seriously, this chapter gave me SO MUCH SHIT. I reallyreallyreally hope you guys like it. I rewrote it probably five different times, but this is the version I liked the most.
> 
> ALSO, July was almost solely dedicated to my Camp NaNoWriMo project (which if you haven't heard is called Kate Argent Must Die and will hopefully be ready to post in 1 to 2 weeks). I'm excited for that too! :) 
> 
> ANYWAYS, thanks for reading, hope you enjoy, come visit me on tumblr. xoxo :)

***

Stiles is sprawled out on his bed, poking the bruised skin of his ankle when Scott sidles in his room.

“Hey man,” he says, and his tone sounds almost awkward—which is enough to get Stiles to roll over and stare at him because they haven’t been awkward with each other since the seventh grade, when Stiles had a wet dream while he was sleeping over at his house.

“What’s up?” he says slowly, quirking an eyebrow.

“Nothing,” Scott hedges, but immediately confesses: “Alright, it’s something,” when Stiles frowns at him.

“Dude?”

“I just—“ Scott huffs out a breath and slumps forward, collapsing next to Stiles and knocking a pillow off the bed. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me, man!”

Stiles has no fucking idea what his deal is. “You want to take that one back, Scotty; run it by me again?”

“Your thing with Derek!” he says, sitting up to stare at him with wounded eyes. “I tell you about Allison!”

“Yeah—trust me. I’m aware of that,” Stiles sighs, eyes dropping down to the purpled skin again. “I mean. What do you want me to say, Scott? That I have a crush on him?” Scott makes an expansive gesture that means absolutely nothing to Stiles. It’s a mark of their friendship when he continues with: “Okay. Fine. I have a crush on him. Whatever. It’s not like it matters.”

“And?”

“And what?” he’s getting a little annoyed now. It’s been a few _long_ days since Derek’s clear dismissal of him, but apparently Stiles had liked the asshole more than he realized, because talking about it now still stings. “There’s nothing else to say.”

“What about how you made out with him?!” Scott exclaims.

“What—“

“I waited a whole four days for you to stop pretending you hated him and tell me, and you didn’t!” Scott sounds so completely betrayed that Stiles feels a little bad even though there’s absolutely no truth to the story.

“Dude, I don’t even know what you’re talking about,” Stiles says. “Derek and I did not make out.”

Scott pauses, looks at him in bewilderment. “You didn’t?”

“No! What the—why would you even—“

“But Isaac saw you,” he says, and. What.

“Isaac told you that we made out,” Stiles says flatly.

Scott nods. “Isaac told a couple people—“

“A _couple_?” Stiles asks shrilly. “How many is a couple? What did he say?”

“He said he walked in and you were humping on the kitchen floo—“

“What the fuck!” Stiles says, flailing so hard he almost falls off the bed. “That is—not what happened!”

“What happened then?”

“We were fighting! I already told you that.”

“I didn’t take you literally,” Scott says dubiously. “I thought you meant arguing. You were physically fighting? On the floor?”

Stiles buries his head in his hands.

“Sounds like you were _almost_ making out,” he says slyly.

“Shut up,” Stiles groans, pointing at his door. “Shut up. Get out, I have to do damage control.”

“Okay. But, no take-backs on the crush thing, right? I don’t know if I can take any more of your denial. Like, seriously dude, it was so obvious that—“

“Get out!”

***

“H—“

“Hey, asshole,” Stiles interrupts before Isaac can even get out a greeting. He clutches his phone a little tighter in his hand when he’s met with silence. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. You want to tell me why you’re telling people me and Derek were making out?”

“ _What,_ ” Someone who is definitely not Isaac growls.

Fuck.

“ _Derek_?” he squeaks, stomach sinking down to the soles of his feet.

He grunts.

“Of course. Of _course_ it’s you,” Stiles groans faintly. “I. Why are you answering Isaac’s phone?”

“He left it at home. He said _what_?”

“He. Scott told me that Isaac said we were making out," Stiles says sheepishly. "I don’t know if he misread the situation, or what, but. We didn’t. Makeout.”

“I know that,” Derek says.

“I—uh—That’s not to say I would be totally averse to it, if it happened, but it didn’t happen.”

“Stiles. I _know_.” he says again. He sounds, against all odds, amused. Stiles flushes. There’s another awkward silence. Stiles fidgets with his bedspread. “You should come over,” Derek says suddenly.

“To make out?” Stiles asks before he can stop himself.

“No,” Derek chokes. Stiles winces, though he really should have expected that answer. “To ambush Isaac. He should be home around 7.”

***

Stiles’s thirst for revenge against Isaac overshadows any lingering bitterness he’s harboring against Derek. Especially once he finds out from Danny that Isaac also told _Lydia_. She's gonna be on his case for _weeks_. He isn’t even entirely sure what an ambush entails, but he’s prepared. So prepared that Derek gives him a highly judgmental look when he lugs his backpack through the door.

Stiles ignores him.

“What do you have in there?” Derek asks, coming up behind him to peer over his shoulder. Stiles startles and jerks a few more feet away.

“Dude. Personal Space.”

Derek raises a brow like _Stiles_ is being difficult, which. He’s not. Stiles is the decent human being here. He would never kick someone out of his house without any explanation. (Alright, so he might still be a _little_  bitter).

Whatever. Just being _in_ the apartment again, inhaling the lingering scent of Febreze and Vanilla Glade Plugins is giving him fucking heart palpitations. He hasn’t even looked at the kitchen yet, so he _really_ _can't_ _deal_ with Derek Hale three inches away and seeping body heat.

God, he’s so pathetic.

Stiles clears his throat to dispel the suddenly tense air and bends over to unload his bag onto the coffee table. “So, where’s Isaac?”

“Working on a group project or something,” Derek shrugs. “We have about an hour.”

“Okay,” he says, clapping his hands together. “Cool. I have water guns, shaving cream, some masks, silly string, a foghorn—“

“What—what exactly are you planning on doing?” Derek interrupts. When Stiles glances up, he looks adorably bewildered.

“Oh. Well.” He stands up, rubs a hand along the back of his neck. “We don’t actually have to use this stuff, you just. You said we were going to ambush him, so—”

“I didn’t mean we were going to attack him,” Derek scoffs. “Jesus.”

Stiles stares at him. “Then what the hell is an ambush?”

“It’s. You know.”

“Obviously I don’t.”

“We’re gonna talk to him.”

Stiles stares some more. “We’re gonna _talk_ to him?” he repeats incredulously. He groans and falls onto the unfairly comfortable couch. “ _Talk??_ I could’ve done that over the phone!”

“Well, why didn’t you say that before you got here?” Derek asks, crossing his arms.

Stiles mouth knocks loose of its own accord and lets out an affronted noise. “Maybe because I never fucking know what’s going on inside your head,” he bitches.

Derek’s eyes snap to his, wide and surprised, and yeah—Stiles probably could have dialed down the brutal honesty a little bit. He drops his gaze to stare at his knees; is wondering if maybe this was a horrible idea and he should just go home, but—

“I should,” Derek starts, before Stiles can say anything else. “Um, I should probably apologize.”

Stiles goes still from his spot on the couch, foot hovering in the air. “Oh?” he asks, voice deliberately calm. “What—uh, what about?”

Derek shoves his hands in his pockets. “About Isaac,” and _that_ was not what Stiles was expecting.

“Isaac?”

“You seem upset about it.” Derek continues, still not meeting his eyes. “And I understand. I don’t want it to…tarnish your reputation.”

It clicks then, that maybe _that_ was why Derek had been so weird and shifty after Isaac showed up and interrupted their weird wrestling match. Maybe he was _embarrassed_ to be caught with Stiles. The thought makes his stomach twist uncomfortably.

“Well, I’m sorry if it…tarnished yours,” Stiles says stiltedly, but Derek just frowns at him, like his sentence isn’t computing.

“It didn’t? You—you don’t have to apologize, Stiles. Isaac is _my_ roommate.”

“Dude,” Stiles snorts, very carefully putting his foot back on the ground. “If we’re talking about reputations here, I think yours is going to be worse off than mine. You’re a—“ he cuts himself off before he can say the forbidden words of  _hot weatherman_ , and instead, lamely mutters, “—you. And I’m me.”

“What does that have to do with anything?” Derek asks, eyes furrowing.

“It’s,” Stiles stares at him, mouth working soundlessly. “Having people think that a hot guy made out with me is not going to tarnish anything. I’m not—as hot, though, so I guess you’d definitely have a few things tarnished.”

“You’re hot,” Derek argues, but it sounds half-hearted and Stiles rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, okay,” he scoffs, stands up to pace around, feeling restless and useless and like he should bail before he embarrasses himself more.

“You’re still mad,” Derek says flatly, eyes tracking his progress back and forth across the room. “Why.”

“I’m not,” he lies, taken off guard. Derek looks like he doesn’t buy it. “Okay, fine,” he says a little hotter than he intends to under such intense scrutiny. “Maybe I am. But I’ll get over it, alright? Let’s just focus on this.”

“Fine—”

“Fine.”

“ _Fine_ ,” Derek says, and sits down heavily on the couch.

***

Ignoring the problem, and by extension Derek, is not very truce-like, Stiles knows. But it wasn’t very truce-like for Derek to kick him out of his house without a thank you for saving his ass, or even an _excuse_. Stiles wishes he’d given an excuse. Something like, "I'm tired," or "Get out while I take a shower." At least then there would be something to blame his behavior on besides the horrible-yet-likely option of Derek being embarrassed of him.

Fuck. _Fuck_. 

“Alright, maybe I _won’t_ get over it,” Stiles finally breaks.

He’s reorganized his supplies eight time already and Derek has done nothing but stare stonily at the wall—and has shown no inclination of doing anything else. Stiles cannot take it anymore. He’s never claimed to be strong in the face of awkward silences, okay. If he’s gonna fucking sit here with Derek Hale for thirty more minutes, there’s at least going to be some awkward talking.

At Stiles’s words, Derek directs his gaze on him instead. And waits. Silently. Stiles huffs at him because he’s totally doing this on purpose.

“You’re such a dick,” he mumbles to himself.

“Is that what you want me to apologize for?” he asks.

“No,” Stiles says immediately, even though the answer is actually kind of yes. “I—“ His words catch in his throat. There's no way he's going to be able to sit here and tell Derek that he’s upset because he has a crush on him and is afraid that Derek is embarrassed of him. He’s not in _eighth grade_. “Maybe I’m just being stupid,” he mutters.

Derek does a weird little move with his eyebrows, but otherwise doesn’t comment. Which means he doesn’t disagree. Which is just _rude_. Stiles tells him so.

“Says the guy who’s been glaring at me for the past twenty minutes and won’t tell me why,” Derek scoffs.

Stiles narrows his eyes. “You’re the one who kicked me out of your house last time, dude,” he snaps. “Forgive me for thinking you might do it again.”

“I didn’t—I didn’t kick you out!” Derek is protesting. “I just asked you to leave!”

“What’s the difference!” Stiles exclaims. Derek is silent. He throws out an arm and groans, flopping back into the couch cushions. “You know what, it doesn’t matter.”

“It obviously does,” Derek says stiffly.

“Yeah, I guess so.”

It’s quiet for so long that Stiles thinks Derek isn’t going to say anything else, has resigned himself to waiting in uncomfortable silence until Isaac gets back, but then— “I haven’t had the best luck with relationships.”

Stiles cracks open an eye and lolls his head over to look at him. Derek is staring at the far wall again, fists clenched in his lap.

“So I just. Get nervous, I guess, when things move too fast.”

Stiles blushes heavily at the words—which is stupid—but it’s the first time either of them have acknowledged the fact that yes, that fight would have probably ended up with them making out if Isaac hadn’t interrupted. He swallows heavily.

“It’s not like I…” he looks sideways at Stiles, huffs out a frustrated breath. “It’s been awhile, for me. The last time I got too caught up in things, it...it did not end well.”

“Oh,” Stiles says, sitting up slowly and watching him carefully. The sick, twisty feeling in his gut is back. “Maybe _I_ should be the one apologizing then.”

“No,” Derek says quickly, eyes darting over to meet his. “That’s not what I meant. I just—“

“No, dude, seriously, if I made you uncomfortable—“

“A lot of people want to date the hot weatherman,” Derek grits out, face coloring. It looks like it costs him something to admit it. “Not a lot of people want to date Derek Hale.”

His words sit there, stagnate, turn over in Stiles’s mind again and again. Derek looks small and forlorn, a little broken. Stiles wants to know what happened to him, who has screwed him over so badly that he has to second-guess things like this. Wants to go back in time and just _not_ watch Hale Storm so he could know Derek as Derek-the-Hot-Roommate instead of Derek-the-Hot-Weatherman. He wonders if that would have made a difference. Probably not.

He heaves a sigh. “I should definitely be the one apologizing,” he finally says.

“No—“

“Shut up,” he groans. “I’m sorry, okay? For being a self-centered dick and not even _thinking_ that you might have a reason for doing what you did.”

“Well I’m sorry for kicking you out and not explaining earlier,” Derek says, and oh. It’s gonna be one of those things.

“I’m sorry for making you apologize just then. I feel worse than before now, actually. Take it back.”

“Stiles—“

“I could do this all night,” Stiles tells him, delighting just a little bit in the way Derek’s nostrils flare in frustration. “Just accept it. Accept my apology, and don’t offer one back.”

“Fine,” Derek sighs. He sounds exasperated, which is just unfair because Stiles has been exasperated with him since like the moment they met. “If it’ll make you shut up; I accept your apology, and retract mine.”

Stiles smiles sunnily at him, punches him good-naturedly on the shoulder and clears his throat uncomfortably. “For the record,” he begins, heart jumping up to beat in his throat. “I want to date Derek Hale.”

He has no idea why he just said that, thinks it might have been a bad idea from the way Derek’s small grin falters.

“You don’t know Derek Hale,” he finally says, voice hard.

“Fair enough,” Stiles concedes, though the whole thing is a little too dramatic for his tastes. He makes a private vow to _get_ to know him. “Hey, do you have any food?”

Derek looks a little like the change in subject has given him whiplash, but shrugs. “Um. I think we have some old Chinese food? We could order pizza if you want.”

“Pizza happens to be my favorite,” Stiles confides, crooked smile upon his face. “Especially if you have beer.”

Derek’s eyes search his face for a moment, like he’s trying to figure him out, and Stiles finds himself holding his breath until Derek either finds what he’s looking for or gives up (Stiles isn’t sure which one happens, but Derek isn’t looking at him anymore).

“We have beer,” Derek affirms, and gets up to find his phone.

***

Isaac doesn’t show up at 7.

Stiles isn’t complaining (doesn’t even realize at first) since he has a bellyful of hot pizza and Derek is sitting next to him and isn’t embarrassed of him (!!!!). Also they found one of those super-corny-disaster-sci-fi movies that Stiles loves to make fun of, so the night has automatically gotten five times better.

“You’d think they’d at least _try_ to make it somewhat believable,” Derek says, just as the giant mosquito breaks through the protagonist’s windshield.

Stiles snorts. “It’s a genetically mutated mosquito that weighs sixty pounds,” he sighs. “Once you go there, you forfeit any type of plausibility.”

“This is frustrating,” Derek says, throwing his crust into the box.

Stiles makes an affronted noise. “ _You're_ frustrating. Who doesn’t eat their crust?”

“Someone who’s full?”

“Unacceptable,” Stiles says.

“ _I’m_ unacceptable,” Derek deadpans. “But the fact that no one in this movie has even _tried_ to set these bugs on fire is something you embrace.”

Stiles sticks his tongue out, flushes when Derek’s gaze drops down and then quickly away.

***

 _Mosquito Frenzy_ ends with an incredibly cheesy flamethrower scene—which Derek crows over for the next ten minutes.

“I told you fire would work,” he says for what has to be the eighteenth time. “I would survive in these movies.”

“Anybody with common sense would survive in these movies,” Stiles dismisses with a wave of his hand.

“Guess that means you’d die then,” Derek murmurs and then snickers until Stiles flings out an indignant punch.

“Oh my god, shut _up_ ,” he groans, falling back down into the cushions. “I’m too full to deal with your shit right now.”

Derek rolls his eyes, but obediently shuts his mouth. Stiles watches silently as he switches off the television. He feels looser; pliant somehow—a combination of the alcohol and good food and the fact that their light-hearted banter has returned with surprising ease. He realizes suddenly that he feels happy. Happy that things got cleared up with Derek; happy they're hanging out now and it's _fun_. 

“This is so weird,” Stiles blurts out. “A month ago we hated each other.”

“I never hated you,” Derek says, frowning slightly.

“I don’t believe you.”

“I didn’t,” he insists. “I mean. Okay, maybe a _little_. You were just confusing. And frustrating.”

" _Sexually_ frustrating?" Stiles teases, just to see Derek's ears pink up. He isn't disappointed, but Derek doesn't confirm or deny his insinuation. Stiles watches him for a minute more, trying to decode the unreadable look fixed on his face and failing terribly.

“It’s almost 8,” Derek says suddenly, as he thumbs over his phone screen.

“Ugh,” Stiles groans. “Where the hell is Isaac? He’s totally messing up our ambush plans!”

“What plans?” Derek snorts. “We have no plan. You have a bunch of random ninja shit and—“

Stiles lets out a helpless laugh. “I’m sorry, did you just call water guns and shaving cream _ninja shit_?” Derek glares at him. “That’s like the furthest thing from ninja shit _ever_.”

“Then why did you bring it to an ambush?”

“Why did you even _call_ an ambush?” Stiles shoots back. “Apparently we’re just here to pass around a talking stick and sing _Kumbaya_.”

“You are not singing anything. My ears can’t handle that.”

Stiles chokes on a laugh and kicks out a lazy foot that Derek easily catches.

“ _Dick_.”

“Does your ankle still hurt?” he asks abruptly, hand tugging up the hem of Stiles’s jeans to get a better look at the bruise.

Stiles shrugs, breath catching when Derek’s fingers skim over the bone. “A little. I can walk on it now, though, so it’s not like it’s that much of a hassle.” He makes a face. “Besides the fact that it's ruining my perfect skin.”

“Ah, your perfect skin,” Derek snorts, letting his foot go. Stiles takes it back reluctantly. “How could I have forgotten?”

“No worries. People forget all the time.”

“I really didn’t mean to do that,” Derek says, suddenly looking startlingly earnest. “I know you think—“

“I don’t,” Stiles cuts him off. “I never really did.”

“Oh.” He sounds pleased.

“Besides, even if I _did_ think you’d slammed my foot on purpose, I wouldn’t have for very long. Literally every single one of your friends was appalled at the possibility that you could ever intentionally hurt someone. Apparently you’re a big teddy bear.”

Derek blushes, which just intensifies the growing need Stiles has to get his hands all over him.

It’s really not fair. At all.

***

At 8:15, Stiles decides to try and Get To Know Derek Hale.

They’re both sated and content and obviously have nothing better to do (than fucking sit here and wait for Isaac)—so it seems as good a moment as ever to start. _Carpe Diem_ and everything, right?

“Would you rather get attacked by giant mosquitos or get trapped on a deserted island?” he asks. 

Derek raises his eyebrows.

Thirty minutes later, Isaac _still_ hasn’t shown up and Stiles has learned three things of very great importance.

  1. Derek has absolutely no survival instinct (for all of his bragging earlier, he would totally die if he was ever put in one of those sci-fi movies)
  2. He’s obsessed with the sandwich shop on 5th street
  3. He’s never seen _The Godfather_



He thinks it’s a good start.

***

“This isn’t even worth it,” Stiles says when the clock reads 9:20. “I don’t even care this much.”

“It _sounded_ like you cared when you called to yell at him,” Derek points out.

Stiles heaves himself up. “I dunno. That was more the principle of the thing—the fact that we _didn’t_ make out and I didn’t want you to, like, hear Isaac running around telling everyone we were humping on the floor—“

“He _said_ that?” Derek barks, face flooding with red.

Stiles coughs nervously, wishing he'd had a little more control over his mouth. “I—I think he said something along those lines, yes.”

Derek glares at the coffee table for a moment. “Maybe we _should_ use your supplies,” he admits grudgingly.

“Be my guest,” Stiles says. “I have some Nerf guns too.”

Derek huffs out a laugh, and Stiles feels his mouth curving up accordingly, _against his permission_. “Sounds good. You hit him with those, I’ll take the water guns.”

“You sure you can handle those?” Stiles asks. “Exactly how confident are you in your aim, Mr. Meteorologist?”

“Why don’t I test them on you, and we can find out,” he offers, eyes glinting darkly—and. Stiles can’t help the way he flashes back to their last fight; the way Derek smiled just like he is now, the way his hands slid along Stiles’s skin, the way they _could_ have been humping on the floor if left to their own devices for a little longer.

“Another water fight?” Stiles asks, letting his eyes linger on the full curve of Derek’s bottom lip for a beat too long. “You sure you want to go down that path? I’ll just beat you again.”

“You didn’t beat me last time!” Derek exclaims, sitting up a little straighter.

“You didn’t delete the photo,” Stiles reminds him. “So I won.”

“Technicality,” he scoffs.

“You wanna rematch?” Stiles challenges.

“Uh,” Derek looks a little lost for words suddenly, skates his eyes away to focus on the empty pizza box. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, actually,” he murmurs.

“No, yeah,” Stiles nods, pretends like he wasn’t kind of looking forward to it. “You’re right. You like to move slow. I get it.”

Derek nods absently, opens his mouth three different times before he finally asks: “Do you?”

“Do I what?” Stiles asks, turning his body to face him. “Do I get it, or…do I like to move slow too?”

“Either,” he shrugs.

Stiles purses his lips. “I…I guess I don’t really get _why_ , since you haven’t explained what happened with whatever horrible relationship you had. But I respect it.”

The corner of Derek’s mouth twitches up. “And do you like to move slow?”

It feels like a loaded question, like Derek’s asking him for some reason other than just idle curiosity. Stiles cocks his head. “I don’t usually, no.” He bumps Derek’s knee with his own, heart tripping up to double-time. “But I’d make an exception for you.”

“Yeah?” Derek asks, turning his face to Stiles, finally. He’s smiling softly, genuinely, and Stiles smiles back.

“Yeah. I don’t know _why_ , but yeah.”

“You're an asshole,” Derek tells him, but it sounds kind of fond.

***

Stiles heads home at 10:00, whistling cheerfully, even though Isaac is still AWOL.

Honestly, he doesn't even _care_.

He lets Derek keep the shaving cream to do with what he pleases (which hopefully includes pranking Isaac while he’s sleeping), and leaves with the rest of his stuff and Derek’s number programmed into his phone.

Sure, the ambush was technically a bust and Jackson is going to bitch at him as soon as he gets home because Stiles stole a bunch of his quarters to do laundry earlier today, but—Stiles is pretty sure he's somehow kind-of-semi-dating _Derek Hale_.

Even Jackson can’t ruin _that_.


End file.
